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Chapter Text

PART I

Regulus Black has spent a good portion of the last two months wondering how in all the burning depths of hell he has found himself in this situation. One of his own making, no less, but it doesn’t change the fact that he spends his nights sleeping in a dorm with a trunk at the foot of his bed inside of which there are books on topics of such unholy and unfathomable evil that he figures the only reason he can fall asleep at all is to escape the constant, grating horror of the notion.

When that notion becomes too persuasive and sleep eludes him, Regulus traces back the chain of events that led him there and settles comfortably on the night he finally had to admit that his parents didn’t love him.

It was the end of June, two months or so after Sirius’s predictably dramatic (and bloody) departure at Easter, when his mother informed him that he would be accompanying her and his father to a meeting. He’d known exactly what kind of meeting this would be—you had to be stupid (Sirius) or intentionally oblivious (also Sirius) to ignore the rumblings of discontent and murmured plans that crossed the threshold of Grimmauld Place—but given his mother’s nearly constant state of coiled rage since the whole Sirius incident, Regulus made the conservative decision not to voice his numerous objections and thereby extend his life another few days.

Walburga had been in a rare mood since the night she and Sirius had clashed for the last time when she had made sure he’d had to drag himself out of the house with significantly less blood than he was entitled to. Regulus had long understood the political machinations of the elite pureblood community, so he’d compiled a rather comprehensive list of expectations for the fallout of Sirius’s little stunt. As he’d predicted, Walburga’s normally despotic standards for his deportment, academic performance, and general indulgence in blood supremacy culture tightened even further to a crushing and illogical degree. Nevertheless, Regulus somehow found a way to appease her, probably because he simply left no chinks in the armor for her to dig her nails into and condemn as flaws.

He’d also predicted the quiet but undeniable response from other pureblood families that the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black deigned to associate with. It didn’t matter that they had no context for Sirius’s escape (and they certainly didn’t think of it as an escape); they didn’t know how he had shouted every thought Regulus had ever secretly entertained in his lockbox mind right at their mother’s face, or how he’d trailed blood down the stairs and smeared it on the front door, or how he was probably off somewhere right at that very moment living a much happier, sunshiny existence in the care of non-psychopaths and the company of his best friend. What mattered to the poshest and most bigoty of the Sacred Twenty-Eight was the fact that one day Walburga and Orion Black had two sons and the next they had one. The title of heir slipped onto Regulus as quietly as the snick of their front door closing.

(Regulus had additionally predicted that the only thing worse than going from two sons to one was two sons to none, a rather important distinction that he suspected prevented his mother from carrying out the full force of her temper on him, thus sparing his life. It is also the distinction that kept him from packing his bags and joining Sirius in his flight.)

Of course the lack of information surrounding the whole debacle only meant that there was that much more speculation flying about, and if there was one thing Walburga hated, it was not being able to control what people were saying about her family. So, as Regulus predicted (he really was quite good at this), she took the first opportunity to recapture the narrative and raze any lingering embarrassment left over from her first son and his terrible disappointment to the name of Black.

What Regulus decidedly did not predict was that her way of doing this consisted of shoving her youngest child into a room with a mass murderer.

In hindsight, he can appreciate that it was an effective strategy: the Black name had recently suffered a dreadful blot from an unfortunate genetic combination named Sirius, so what better way to showcase its continued prowess and wipe their hands of the whole situation than to present a perfect example of the Black family on a silver platter? This strategy had the added benefit of cementing the Blacks’ position in the upper echelons of an upstart cult that was very in vogue these days.

From an objective perspective, it’s a pretty good plan. From the perspective of the person on whom it unwillingly hinges, it fucking sucks.

Regulus had naively assumed that his attendance at this meeting would be in a decorative capacity only, a sort of Look at this one. See? He’s well behaved and obedient and honestly we’re all much better off without the other one anyway. He knows now not to underestimate two things: how quickly and deeply one’s loyalties can be questioned in such tumultuous times as these and how far his mother will go to correct any misgivings.

Needless to say, Regulus had not been expecting to meet the leader of the Death Eater movement that night, much less to be sacrificed to his service and advertised as what his mother proudly called a “promising secret weapon” and what Regulus thought of more as an indentured child soldier.

He had dressed himself according the role he’d thought he would play, a quiet, straight-backed paragon of pureblood wizarding ideals, and he couldn’t bring himself to regret the stiff high neck of his dark robes if it reminded him to keep his head up through the night and covered another centimeter of skin. In the vaulting halls of the Blacks’ ancestral country manor, he tried to ignore how similar he looked to the austere portraits of Blacks past with their cold eyes looking down on him from high up on the walls. Walburga had pulled whatever strings necessary to host the meeting this time, and the only comfort Regulus took from it was that he knew the layout and the exits and could perhaps lean into some semblance of haughty authority as the heir apparent.

He held on to his lofty attitude even when he was seated at their sprawling banquet table surrounded by more members of his family than he cared to see in a year. With his mother to his left and his father at her other side, Regulus couldn’t help but be keenly aware of how close he was to the empty seat at the head of the table; the only people separating him from it were his cousin Bellatrix and her husband, neither of which exactly inspired confidence in him. Across the table Narcissa kept trying to subtly catch his eye. He knew what he would see if he allowed it, a desperate plea for him to explain how he had ended up in the mix with the rest of them, so he didn’t look and instead reinforced his expression of entitled indifference.

All concept of his safety or relative power under his own roof disappeared when the doors to the hall opened for a man to step through and the low buzz of conversation abruptly ceased.

In his mind, this man only existed as a gaping patch of negative space that his family talked around but never really about. In the same room as him, Regulus couldn’t tell if he was grateful for their inability to address the topic or incensed by how unprepared that had left him. Most of all he just felt fear, an instinctual, life-preserving fear that he was intimately acquainted with and that was currently telling him to get out, now.

Regulus supposed the man might be around his parents’ age if not a little older, with dark hair and dark eyes with nothing behind them. To be perfectly frank, guessing things like his age or ancestry were useless; in his presence the inherent wrongness of him overrode most of Regulus’s analytical reasoning and left him wondering why the hell everyone else here seemed okay with this.

He had heard Bellatrix refer to him in tones of shameless reverence as The Master or The Dark Lord as she waxed on about his potential to advance the dark arts further than any wizard before him. Regulus wasn’t particularly impressed by her fanaticism. Her brand of madness was not grounded enough for him to find it remotely helpful when trying to parse out what exactly it was his family and a disturbing portion of the wizarding world had gotten themselves into.

The man took an unhurried pace to his seat and stood behind it as he looked out over them. Then he smiled in a way that could have come across as appreciative to people more gullible than Regulus and said, “It is so compelling to see you all gathered here tonight, old friends”—here he shifted his gaze directly to Regulus—“and new.”

Regulus considered it his bravest act to date that he didn’t lower his eyes. They matched stares for a moment too long before the man returned his gaze to the assembled and said, “Now, let us discuss business…”

He took his seat, and proceeded to lead a discussion that meandered its way around an assortment of topics: acts of targeted violence, atrocities both planned and already executed, people reduced to slurs and numbers in the same sentence as words like “extermination” and “purification”.

Through it all, Regulus sat as still as he could manage and focused his efforts on schooling his expression against the mounting panic.

It lasted for hours and by the end, he felt as if a cavity had broken open at the top of his head and the blinding pain was just around the corner if he so much as allowed himself to blink. He hated Sirius for putting him in this position. He hated that he understood why his mother had brought him here and sat him in between her and a man responsible for more death than he could fathom. He hated even more that some part of him, a part that was very much fifteen years old and still looked for moments that might allude to her secret affection for him, had the audacity to feel betrayed by her actions. Somehow, despite years raised under her unforgiving wand and the fresh memories of her mutilating Sirius, a piece of Regulus had still believed that he was capable of earning and deserving her love.

That belief was summarily laid to rest when Walburga spoke into the silence at the end of the discussion: “My Lord, if I may…”

Regulus felt the muscles around his spine tighten even further, like a rope twisted to the point of creaking. The man at the end of the table turned his calm eyes towards her and waited for her to continue. Though she was the one who had spoken, Regulus’s instincts were berating him with the awareness of everyone’s attention on him.

“I had hoped to take this opportunity to present to you my son and the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” She rested one hand against his shoulder, the perfect visage of a dignified mother. “Regulus will make a fine addition to your ranks, and I hope that you might recognize the potential he holds to perform beyond ordinary expectations.”

The hall was silent as they held their breath for the man’s reaction. Regulus had no idea what his mother could possibly mean and experienced a wild, arbitrary moment where he imagined Sirius in this room with all of them. He would probably take this moment stand so abruptly his chair would screech on the marble floor, and he would gesture to Regulus and say something like What the fucking hell could you be referring to? Little Reggie can’t do half of what you say, in that way he had that simultaneously pissed Regulus off and drew their mother’s attention away from him. He banished the thought before it could proceed further into embarrassing fantasies of Sirius dragging him out the door by his hand and hauling him to safety.

The man folded his hands on the table and asked, “Please elaborate, Walburga.”

Regulus didn’t miss the lack of titled address for his mother, but he also didn’t miss the game his mother was running. She’d waited until the discussions were over to introduce her little surprise, delayed the real information for as long as possible under the guise of simple manners. Regulus knew better; the room, the man included, were eating out of the palm of her hand as they waited to find out just what exactly could make Regulus so exciting. Regulus himself was also interested in this.

But he was not prepared for his mother to say, “It is no secret that the House of Black has a lineage of admirable magical prowess in the blood of its kin” —Regulus wanted to yawn at this blatant moment of self-promotion—“but a lesser known and perhaps more powerful strand of magic has bestowed on select members of the House a propensity for the arts of legilimency and occlumency.”

If Regulus had not already been frozen in his seat, he imagined he would have been then. And he thought his mother knew it too because her grip on his shoulder tightened to a painful clench.

“Regulus showed an early aptitude for such magic and has spent years honing his skills. I am pleased to say that he may very well be the most talented legilimens and occlumens this family has seen in generations.”

Regulus’s breaths shortened to a pant that did nothing to help his spinning head. How had she known? He had been so careful, all these years. It was common knowledge that Walburga was proficient in legilimency and occlumency, but few people knew that she both taught it to and used it on her own children. Sirius had hated those early lessons, always so stubborn about the intrusion, shutting down his own mind in response. They were such delicate arts that a willful personality like his had little hope of mastering them. Regulus had been different. Even a year younger than Sirius, his six-year-old self had appreciated the nuance and persuasion necessary to slip into another person’s thoughts as well as the obstinance and cunning required to protect one’s own.

Walburga had given it up as a lost cause after Sirius’s vocal disapproval and punished them both accordingly for the failure. But during those long days and nights locked in the closet, Regulus couldn’t help but relive the feeling of stretching himself thin for a moment or two; it was the closest he had ever felt to slipping out of his own mind, and the versatility was intoxicating.

When they were finally released, Sirius ran to the backyard, and Regulus crept up to the library.

The years in between then and the meeting where he now found himself were filled with his own studies on legilimency and occlumency. After he had thoroughly exhausted the Black family library on the topics (it had taken three years all on its own), he began the arduous work of crafting his own mental shields. At first they were cumbersome and exhausting to maintain, and at times it was like he had taken a wrong turn and employed the wrong piece of self to protect his mind, in which case he suffered horrible migraines until he could identify the offending piece or start over again. But after much practice, most of which took place during that first lonely year when Sirius swanned off to Hogwarts and left Regulus alone in Grimmauld Place, it was almost effortless.

The legilimency work only really began when it was his turn to start at Hogwarts. Regulus was under no impression that his probing would be fine-tuned enough to escape notice, the mark of a true legilimens, so he figured his next best bet was to practice on people who wouldn’t know what was happening even if they felt it. The crop of fellow first years proved to be a rather ideal testing pool. He started out shallow, which worked well because most eleven-year-olds didn’t have very deep thoughts to offer anyway. Just walking through the hall from class to class, Regulus could pick a subject and drag a metaphorical hand through their thoughts, drawing it back to study the ones that clung to his fingers like drops of water. They were, of course, inane: I miss home, I wonder what’s for lunch, I have to find that damn owl or I’ll be out another ten sickles.

Second year had presented a bit of a snag. He’d been in the library studying with Barty when his own boredom led his mind to branch out, just a bit. As a rule, he tried not to practice on his friends; they were his friends because they had a mutual respect and part of that respect included boundaries. But he’d found that as he got better at it, he sometimes didn’t even realize he was doing it, reaching for someone else’s thoughts as easily as his own. He was sure it was just the slightest touch, like laying a single finger against the still surface of a pond, but Barty had stiffened anyway and slowly lifted his eyes to Regulus.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing, Reg?” Barty had asked with enough contained tension to give away the fact that he already knew the answer.

Regulus had been stunned into silence; no one had ever noticed that their thoughts were not safe from him. In most cases, they felt it like a vague bruise and shrugged it off when he quietly slipped away. But Barty had clearly caught him in the act, so Regulus said nothing and waited for an explosion that only Barty was capable of.

Barty continued to stare at him as he dropped his chin into his palm and said, “Huh. Who knew?”

Regulus hadn’t known what that meant, especially when Barty said, “Tell you what, let’s make a deal. You can practice on me as long as you swear to never do that again without my permission. Got it?”

Regulus was sure that his face had portrayed a rather doltish confusion at that proposition, but Barty just raised his eyebrows. He finally said, “Deal,” and Barty said, “Great,” and he went back to studying. It took Regulus a bit longer to process that particular exchange.

From then on, Regulus would ask Barty to sit down with him for an hour or two a couple times a month when he wanted to try something new or test a certain tactic. Barty always said yes and Regulus always worked carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Barty for what was a rather magnificent display of trust. Typically Barty would select one thought of varying privacy, and Regulus would have to try and find it in an exercise Barty liked to call Go Fish (he assured Regulus that this would be very funny to anyone with a knowledge of muggle games). Regulus felt much better knowing Barty was in control of which thoughts Regulus would receive, and it made all the difference having someone who could tell him what they sensed.

Some nights they would get to talking, which was how Regulus found out that Barty’s father had a rather clumsy handle on basic legilimency and had tried a stint of parenting that employed it on Barty. It was refreshing to find out that there was all sorts of crazy out there and that Regulus wasn’t the only child that had been reared by it. He had offered to try and teach Barty what he knew, but he had only accepted a few lessons on the fundamentals of occlumency before he cited boredom with the whole process and declared it was much more fun to watch Regulus exhaust himself trying to navigate the labyrinth of Barty’s mind.

Regulus had advanced quickly from there, identifying the levels a person’s mind could produce, how personality affected the organization, the different strategies he’d have to use to access a thought vs. a memory, and how long and quickly he could peruse before he felt himself stretched too thin or the other person caught on to the intruder in their head.

Most importantly, he learned how not to be caught. Instead of running a hand through their mind it was a bit like diving in, and like diving, the cleaner and faster and sharper you were, the fewer ripples you produced.

In fourth year when Regulus could slice into Barty’s mind, snatch his proffered thought, reel himself back out and the only response Barty had was “Merlin, are you going to take all day to get in me or do I have to hold your hand?” Regulus decided that was enough. He recited Barty’s thought back to him and watched his face morph from an expression of shock to one of devious glee (and maybe a bit of pride). Regulus then told him that he wouldn’t practice with him anymore. Barty had of course objected, saying that just because he could do it once didn’t mean he could keep doing it, and Regulus had answered that he wouldn’t practice with him, not that he wouldn’t practice at all. Barty’s responding cackle had made Regulus smile. He had a shortlist of people whose minds he would never invade including his friends (and a few others for reasons that Regulus would not look at too closely), but the rest of the school was fair game. By fifth year, he could tell the exact phrases his professors would say the moment before they said them, and he’d change key words as he dictated them to Barty in the back of the classroom to try and get him to laugh loud enough for a detention.

Now just a few days shy of his sixteenth birthday, Regulus was not too humble to say that he’d maxed out the mechanics of legilimency and occlumency; if there were more tricks to it, he had yet to find them and what he did know came to him as naturally as breathing. Perhaps he’d been a fool to assume he could sneak this past his mother, but the thing was he really thought he had. Nothing good could come from Walburga having this information, as he was currently learning first hand. He’d thought his own mind well enough protected that he would notice if she decided to seek out answers on her own. But an unfortunate principle of occlumency dictated that the better you knew the person, the easier it was to slip past their defenses, and as much as he hated it, Regulus and Walburga Black understood each other very well.

As Regulus sat stone still in his chair with that incredible secret dropped on the table in plain view, he thought that there was a small chance his own mind hadn’t even recognized Walburga as an imposter and had let her in thinking it was him. This was not an idea he could entertain for long before the implications forced him to tune back into the murmuring from the shocked Death Eaters.

When the man spoke, the room quieted again.

“Walburga, that is most fascinating. Thank you for sharing it with me.” He then turned to address Regulus. “Regulus, is this true?”

With no other option in sight, he said, “Yes, my Lord.”

“And you would be generous enough to share this gift with our worthy cause? To employ it at my behest against our mutual enemies?”

A fool Regulus may have been, but he was not fool enough to miss the meaning of those words. Being at the behest of this man meant he was not even the drafted soldier he’d assumed, no, he’d already been demoted to weapon. Something mindless and thoughtless and completely without a say in its direction. But he also knew an opportunity when he saw one. The offer to “share” his skills was the only one he would receive before they were taken by force. A trained legilimens was a rare and valuable asset to any cause, and Regulus had no doubt that his choice in the matter was purely ceremonial.

At this moment, Regulus recognized himself at a crossroads that would define the next years of his life. (Or months: he was beginning to think that his life might be much shorter than he had hoped). It would be remiss to say that Regulus had not considered his own place in the looming war, but he’d really thought he’d have a bit more time before making any drastic decisions.

And now that time was up, and Regulus had already decided. In reality, Sirius had made the decision for him two months ago.

“Of course, my Lord. It would be an honor.”

The man smiled again, genuine this time, pleased with his own mastery. “That is wonderful to hear, Regulus. The wizarding world will be indebted to your service. You have done your family proud.”

Regulus bowed his head and settled back in his seat as the attention finally shifted away from him. He didn’t think his parents were proud of him; he had done what he was told and met an expectation but only after lying to them for years, something he was sure his mother did not consider forgiven just yet. He couldn’t help but follow his thoughts back to Sirius. Sirius who would have been appalled to witness what Regulus had just done. Sirius who’d always thought there was something redeemable about Regulus despite his vicious words comparing his put-upon apathy to their mother. Sirius who had never really gotten the hang of being a survivor.

But Regulus figured if his brother wanted to leave him here then he could take responsibility for what Regulus had to become in order to stay alive.

The meeting adjourned and Regulus rose to his feet on stiff legs. Narcissa was looking at him with a confounded expression, like she didn’t think he fully comprehended what he’d just done. He did though, so he sent her a glare and turned away, more than ready for this night to be over so he could retreat to his rooms and mull over whether he might be better off jumping from the roof. But Regulus had never been lucky, and he certainly wasn’t when he heard the man’s soft voice call his name.

Regulus turned back to him as he said, “I wonder if you might join me to further discuss your future.”

He swallowed and said, “Gladly,” before following the man into the smaller parlor with the garden view. The doors closed behind him. As much as Regulus disliked being in the same room with him and every miserable pureblood within a thousand kilometer radius, being alone with him was much worse.

The garden parlor was normally one of Regulus’s favorites, but he knew that after tonight he wouldn’t be able to stomach it anymore. The candles that illuminated with a wave of the man’s hand bounced reflections off the darkened window panes and made the whole room feel much tighter. The man gestured for Regulus to sit on one of the low couches and poured himself a goblet of something from the sideboard. Then he walked over to stand before Regulus and consider him with undivided attention.

“I must admit,” he began, “that I’d thought myself much more capable of sensing a fellow legilimens. Your mother most certainly possesses the gift, but you took me by surprise.” He waited a moment as he sipped his drink. Regulus said nothing, too aware of the consequences that followed answering when no questions were asked. “How is it that I could not detect your skill?”

Regulus took a breath and subtly rolled his shoulders. Then with a nonchalance he felt not at all, he said, “I believe it has to do with the occlumency, my Lord. A good shield prevents not only outside intrusions but also the potential for internal projections.”

It occurred to him a moment too late that he had possibly offended whatever occlumency skill this man had, but he just hummed thoughtfully. He still towered over Regulus, but to someone who had grown up in a household that operated on power struggles and intimidation tactics, it was easy to keep a neutral expression even if his palms sweated against his robes.

“Would you indulge me in a brief test of sorts, to gain a more comprehensive understanding of your handle on the arts?”

Regulus resisted the urge to shift in his seat. “Naturally, my Lord.”

“Very good. Just a simple exercise.”

He had barely finished the word when Regulus felt a flash of warning like a quick shadow in his peripheral followed closely by the heavy wallop of a battering ram slamming into his shield. It reverberated along his mind with a sickening resonance but did not penetrate. He had only just wrapped his head around the first when another and then multiple began assailing him from what felt like all possible directions. Regulus had never trained against a direct assault to his shields, but he had crafted them carefully. Instead of a stagnant, brittle wall, Regulus had coerced his shields into a malleable but deeply layered barrier. The battering rams this man employed hit a solid resistance like pounding a fist on packed wet sand and receiving no give. The trick with his shields, Regulus knew, was to go in slowly. Where the wet sand held against brute force, it yielded to gentle pressure.

Which was how Regulus recognized when the battering rams became less of an attempt to breach his mind and more of a distraction from the insistent little worm that started subtly carving a path for itself. Regulus supposed he wasn’t meant to notice this and briefly entertained the idea of letting it go to hide the true extent of his control, but allowing the man anywhere near his unprotected thoughts sent a wave of spiked nausea through him, so he pulled out his next trick. As soon as the worm had fully submerged itself in Regulus’s shield, he caved in its point of entry and clamped down to trap it completely. He was pleased to see the man flinch slightly and held eye contact as he turned the worm over and over in his mind.

The thing about any attempt at legilimency was that you risked exposing yourself as much as sought to expose another. Every instrument crafted to infiltrate the mind was a piece of your own person and could reveal your secrets if you weren’t careful. Regulus knew he didn’t have long, so he threw caution to the wind and dissected the squirming worm of thoughts and intentions as quickly as he could.

What he found was strange, a jagged picture from the distorted reflections of a broken mirror. There were pieces but they weren’t cohesive like the mind should be. And more importantly, there were gaps, empty spaces occupied only by image negatives that Regulus couldn’t quite make out. It was like staring too long as a bright light then closing your eyes to see a glowing, globular impression of an object against the dark. And there was that same pervasive sense of wrongness in those gaps. The longer he looked, the wider they gaped until he felt a lurch of vertigo as if he were about to tumble into the cracks of this man’s self. He whipped his consciousness away from it just as the man yanked on the worm and Regulus let him take it back.

He hadn’t realized his heart was racing and his breaths were coming heavier until he noticed the slight shine of perspiration on the man’s temples.

“Most impressive, Regulus,” the man said. Regulus didn’t like the way he was looking at him, hungry and greedy. He was sure that if this man could take his skill for himself he would and avoid the whole ordeal of having to go through Regulus to access it.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“Just one more test now to try out your legilimency.” He took another sip of his drink before setting it on the table and seating himself on the sofa next to Regulus. Regulus really wished his sense of self-preservation was less finely tuned than it was so that he might ignore the chorus of Run! Leave! Get away from him! that sounded in his head.

“I will bury a specific thought, and I would like for you to attempt to find it. When you do, tell me what you see.”

Regulus nodded. He told himself this was nothing he hadn’t done before with Barty and looked into the man’s eyes. Then he sent a tentative hand to brush against his shield.

It was cold and Regulus was surprised to find it was also intangible; his hand passed right through like it was disappearing into a dark mist. He took another step closer and allowed the mist to settle across him in a sheen. He could almost feel it sticking to him, and he tried to ignore its cloying grasp. Regulus knew there would be some trick to it, he just hated that he’d have to find out to understand what it was. He took one more step fully into the mist before he learned. With the darkness surrounding him he felt himself start to suffocate like the mist was toxic and was choking off his consciousness. Regulus did his best to remind his corporeal self to breathe as he quickly took the two steps backwards to escape its hold. The mist released him without objection. He imagined that most people who tried to infiltrate it immediately lost their way and got turned around as they panicked. It was a clever mechanism, misleading and deadly in a way Regulus almost wished he’d thought of himself.

Where he stood outside the mist, he tried to peer through to gauge its depth, but there was no seeing past the blank expanse of swirling, cloudy black. Given the sophistication of the shield, though, Regulus reasoned that it couldn’t go on forever; no one had the energy or power to produce an infinite shield, not even this man. So if the trick to Regulus’s shield was a gentle touch, the trick here was speed. Regulus took a moment to steel himself and then hurtled his consciousness as fast as he could into the mist.

The darkness engulfed him immediately, but he only moved faster (he was no stranger to darkness anyway). The mist clung to him and congealed into thick drips like tar, pressing down on his mind and cutting him off. He pushed himself faster and just when he thought he would surely pass out, crumpled under the drag of the sticky substance, he burst through the last of it right into a freefall.

For a moment, Regulus thought he’d made a mistake; there was no light and no layers of depth like most people’s minds. Instead he found himself floating in the middle of a dimensionless pool. It reminded him of those blue holes around the world, revered for their unnatural uniformity of dense color but feared for the way divers lost their bearings and died suspended deep in the water when they couldn’t find their way back up. Except this one was black and silent, and Regulus allowed himself one incredulous second to wonder who the hell this man was what the fuck was wrong with him before assessing his situation.

He told himself it was just another mind even if it felt as foreign and inhospitable as the depths of space. He tried moving around and met no resistance but also saw nothing that looked like a thought or memory he could grab on to. Regulus stamped down his rising hysteria and tried to reason out how to complete his task blind. He thought that maybe there was another trick at play. Entering required speed, navigating might require patience. So he stilled himself and waited.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he picked up on a sensation. It wasn’t necessarily a sound and it certainly wasn’t light. It was more like a rhythmic pulse of pressure that he felt in his head and his chest and his bones, faint but unrelenting. He tried to allow himself to settle into the pulse, to breathe in time with it, five beats of pressure followed by three of silence before it looped again. After a while it began to feel like a heartbeat in a forced, contrived kind of way, like someone had ripped the heart out, tinkered with it, and stuffed it back in when it beat how they wanted it to. Regulus moved in one direction, then another, until he felt the pulses become heavier as if he was moving closer to the source. He figured it was as good a starting point as any and continued forward.

As he progressed, the pulsing turned uncomfortable then almost painful. It squeezed him like it was trying to crush his lungs and crack his skull and override his own heartbeat. He began to feel it throb in his fingertips and hear it as a the pump of some giant beast’s wings. He was almost delirious with it when he could have sworn that there were images within, those same inscrutable designs from the gaps when Regulus picked apart the worm. He couldn’t exactly see them, just like he couldn’t exactly hear the pulse, but it was like they had bypassed his eyes entirely and were being branded onto his brain, shifting from one to the next with each pulse and repeating again. Regulus pushed against the surging tumble of his own mind, tried to gather it up and hold it together even as he felt it slowly shredding under the weight of the pulse. He moved again, quietly, just a bit closer, and the images sharpened like his eyes were adjusting to the impenetrable dark. He focused past the horrible tempo and they sharpened again. And then five clear objects flashed in his own mind one after the other and he could stand it no longer.

Regulus pulled back to where he could breath, though he still felt that faint pulse in his sternum like they recognized each other now. The images made no sense to him, seemingly arbitrary objects that had no connection to each other except for how fundamentally they were woven into this man’s person. This couldn’t possibly be the thought he had intended for Regulus to uncover. For starters, they weren’t exactly thoughts so much as they were literal pieces of the self. But that made no sense because the self could not be an object. Were they a representation then? But why would there be multiple? For another thing, Regulus was positive that they were a part of that wrongness, so much so that they might be the source of it and so deep within the mind that they must have been nestled next to the very source of the man himself.

Before Regulus could dwell on the images any longer, he saw a spark out of the corner of his eye like a small, bright fishing lure. He turned to face it head on. It winked and twisted a little, and when Regulus extended one careful finger towards it, it snapped into an image of his brother, in full light and full color, casual and smiling and looking right at Regulus. He was so close and real and sudden that Regulus’s heart jumped into his throat. He could barely suppress a scream at the horror of Sirius held within this man’s mind. Sirius took one step towards him and he scrambled back. He took another, then another, stalking Regulus down with his hands in his pockets and burning intention in his eyes and Regulus decided he’d had enough. He allowed the pull of his own mind in his own body to suck him back out and away from this distortion of his brother in that godforsaken pool of black.

The sensation of being back in himself left him so light with relief and simplicity that Regulus swore he would never complain about being stuck in his own head again. He felt a single drop of sweat slide down the back of his neck and buried his hands in his robes, half for the thrilling feel of real fabric in a real world, half to hide the tremors.

In front of him, the man leaned back against a pillow.

“Tell me what you saw, Regulus.”

Regulus was very aware that what he said next could get him killed, Ancient House of Black or not. If the man knew how deep Regulus had ventured into his mind, he would likely already be dead, so chances were he hadn’t noticed. The idea that Regulus had seen those five images and now had to keep it secret was almost more anxiety inducing than the idea of the man knowing about it. So he turned his attention to Sirius.

He suspected this was a trial of loyalties, a test within a test of the variety his mother preferred. The words “my brother” were stuck to his tongue with a kind of pathetic, childish longing that would gain him no favor. He twisted the vision instead, and with it, the words.

“A traitor,” Regulus responded. “I saw a blood traitor.”

The man smiled. Regulus had guessed wisely; men like this never tired of being told what they wanted to hear.

“I believe you have the makings of a very promising follower, Regulus. Given your potential, the ordinary probationary period might even be accelerated before your final indoctrination.”

Regulus didn’t know what this meant at the time, but he felt viscerally the beginning of a new countdown, another clock ticking away in his chest before he passed a point of no return.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

The man stood and Regulus took his cue to stand as well.

He said, “I look forward to seeing the things you can accomplish in the name of Lord Voldemort.”

Then he exited the parlor and left Regulus alone on shaking legs.

As soon as he was gone, Regulus let his knees give out and dropped onto the sofa. His whole body twitched and shuddered like he had been torn apart and sloppily stitched back together, and his brain felt as painful and slow-moving as magma. Deep within it though, those five objects flashed again and again.

Regulus pushed himself off the sofa and took a few wobbling steps to the door. He vomited into the broad vase of a potted plant and wiped his mouth on his sleeve before straightening his back and his robes and sucking in one deep breath. He had never felt his life balanced on a knife edge like that before, never been so primally afraid of another person.

Then again, he thought as he pushed through the parlor doors, he would probably have found the whole situation much more terrifying were he not so appalled that Lord Voldemort had referred to himself in the third person.

Regulus avoided his mother for the rest of the night; he could pay for hiding his legilimency from her another time. He denied Kreacher when he offered him a late supper and crawled into bed with the windows open as wide as they could go. From where he lay, he clung to the silvery moon shadows cast across the whorls of plaster embellishment on his ceiling. He spent the rest of the night both exhausted and wide awake because every time he closed his eyes, he saw those same five images over and over and over again.

book,cup,ring,tiara,pendant,book,cup,ring,tiara,pendant,book,cup,ring,tiara,pendant

*

That was in June. It is now September.

Regulus guesses that most people his age spend their summers traveling or hanging out with friends. His summer looked very much like his school year, if his school year was half as rewarding and ten times darker.

After the meeting, he allowed himself two days of inconsolable crisis. He spent his sixteenth birthday locked behind his bedroom door ignoring the owls from his friends. Then on the third day, he pulled himself out of bed, dressed, and stepped into the library. From sunrise to long past dusk from July to September, Regulus had shut himself away in the library surrounded by open volumes of wizarding history, tomes on genealogy, and his personal notebooks filled with theories and drawings that looked more like the ravings of a madman every day.

The way he saw it, his problem was threefold: first, Regulus had to figure out who Lord Voldemort was. He wasn’t exactly sure how that might play into who he had become, but if nothing more, it would give Regulus some peace of mind to know that he was human after all. Lord Voldemorts weren’t just born, they were made. Of this he was sure. The morbid biographies of other dark wizards in their rise and inevitable fall always confirmed this. Names that struck fear into the hearts of wizards, like Brovanushka, Atanase the Immortal, and Grindelwald, all had their origins as unassuming people before their reputations overshadowed their pasts. Regulus would comb through centuries of wizarding lineages until his eyes crossed and his fingers traced spidery lines of family trees in his sleep if he had to.

Second, Regulus needed to know what the five objects were and how they had been incorporated into Lord Voldemort’s person. He had drawn them in his notebooks with as much detail as he could recall, which was quite a lot as it turned out. They didn’t fade like a memory as much as Regulus would have preferred it that way; instead, it was like once he had seen them, he couldn’t unsee them. He would slump in the chair by the library window sketching the same five things over and over so lightly they appeared on the pages as ghostly watermarks or with a heavy hand that left behind thick lines and dark blots of ink.

He'd had slightly more luck identifying the objects. It was an oppressively hot day in the middle of July, and Regulus had flung open the windows and rolled up his sleeves but his shirt still stuck to his back with sweat. He was flipping through The Visual Index of Wizarding Britain’s Most Treasured Heirlooms by Constantin Windsom in a heat-induced stupor when he turned the page and jolted so violently he fell out of his chair. He scrambled back up and snatched the book closer. Embossed on the paper was the tiara, the exact one, Regulus would know it anywhere. The top of the page read “The Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw.” Regulus could scoff at the word diadem later (it was a goddamn tiara, for Merlin’s sake), just then he was too busy speeding through the largely unhelpful description of the tiara’s origins and even less helpful rumors of its current whereabouts. He flipped through a few more pages and released a single short laugh when he saw the cup (excuse him, goblet.) Hufflepuff’s apparently. A few pages later he found Slytherin’s locket. Founders’ Objects. Three out of four anyway.

The ring and the book still eluded him. They weren’t catalogued in The Visual Index (Regulus’s new favorite book, by the way), and were likely much less notable than the Founders’ Objects. The only clue he had for the ring appeared by way of the faint G carved into the dark stone. If pressed for an answer, Regulus would guess that made it a family piece, passed down like so much of his mother’s jewelry in the Black vaults. This would link it to his first task, and he was hoping that finding one would find the other.

The book was about as plain and untraceable as a book could be. It was only after hours by candlelight staring at the library books next to his own journals that Regulus decided the soft, worn cover, without words or special binding, reminded him much more of the journals than an actual published book. It was very little to go on, but it was better than nothing.

The third and most personally distressing problem was the Death Eaters. Since that first meeting, Regulus had attended two more, in July and again in August. The location changed from one sprawling country manor to the next, but the members were the same. The Blacks occupied a good portion of every table along with the Malfoys, Averys, Mulcibers, Dolohovs, Lestranges, and a substantial selection of lesser but still prominent pureblood families. Regulus noted with overwhelming relief that while the Rosiers were present, he had yet to see Evan at one of these functions.

It was through these meetings that he got a sense for the Death Eaters’ goals and methods, both equally insane in Regulus’s opinion (he kept this opinion to himself). He also gained some clarity regarding his “probationary status” and eventual “indoctrination.” The ugly tattoo on Bellatrix’s arm and those of a few others around the table leered at him when he could stand to look at it. The Dark Mark was ordinarily rewarded to the most fanatic of followers after a year of commendable service to the cause. Regulus had been lucky enough to be fast-tracked on account of his unique skillset and family, and he willed the time between now and December to lengthen itself out infinitely. He knew it was futile; his mother wanted her son to be the youngest marked and so he would be. But that same part of him that kicked and screamed against his own mask of apathy begged that he do everything in his power to avoid crossing that line. As much as it was a sentence, it was also one last chance to turn back. Everything was undoable until the mark was forced on him. It was that until that he clung to.

After the July meeting he had found himself in another panic. His vision blurred around the edges and sounds reached him in a muffled heap like he was underwater. In his room he slammed his door and wrote one desperate, coded message to Evan, the only one of his friends his mother would allow him to correspond with. In the letter, he told Evan about his situation. About being sacrificed by his mother and poached by the Dark Lord. About the meetings and the Dark Mark and the ticking clock. He did not tell him about the five objects or the legilimency because even writing about them felt taboo. He’d done his best to steady his hand, but his fear came through in his words. Evan would understand, though. With his father as powerful as he was in the Death Eaters, he’d been one of the first to know about the movement and the first to bring it up in their group.

Three days later, Evan’s response arrived, coded as well. On the surface he talked about boring summer days at their estate. On the underside, he heard Regulus’s fear and walked through the problem. That was one thing Regulus loved about his friends: none of them had any patience for placating words or empty promises. They were tough, clever, and loyal to the point of destruction at its extreme. Regulus took comfort from the fact that if he died a sixteen-year-old at the hands of his shitty parents and a psycho with too much leeway, his friends would slash and burn the whole of England until they deemed his memory avenged. Evan had shared Regulus’s letter with Barty, and Regulus already felt much better knowing Barty’s brand of unpredictable genius was at work in the wings. Evan assured Regulus that Barty had said there might be a way to buy him time, about six months if it worked as it should, and that Barty would bring the necessary papers to school in September. Regulus didn’t know what papers would save him from a cult initiation, but he was overdue for some trust in his friends.

The August meeting changed things. After the Death Eaters were dismissed, Voldemort called on Bellatrix, Lucius, and Walburga to speak with him privately. Regulus tried to think of a way he could listen in, strained his consciousness to see if Bellatrix or Lucius had any idea what might be coming, but all he felt was their anticipation. Regulus flooed back to Black Manor with his father and bid Kreacher goodnight before going upstairs.

The meeting was not long; less than half an hour later Regulus heard the crack of apparition beyond the border wards. He crept to the staircase and watched his mother enter through the front door and drop her cloak with Kreacher. Kreacher met his eyes where he stood shadowed by the banister but continued on to the cloak room without a word. Then Walburga removed her gloves and Regulus’s breath stopped somewhere between his lungs and his throat.

Immediately, his head pounded with the pulse, the same five beats that he heard in his dreams sometimes. It was faint, as if distant, but he didn’t need to question its source when he spotted an extra ring on his mother’s hand. To anyone else, it would blend in seamlessly with the heavy, expensive jewelry Walburga wore every day. To Regulus, who had sorted through her jewelry box as a child, who had felt the heft of those rings against his cheekbones when he misbehaved, who had the image of one in particular seared into his mind, there was no mistaking it for a piece from the Black family collection.

Walburga strode into the formal sitting room and out of sight. The pulsing thankfully lessened. Regulus stumbled back to his bedroom and closed the door silently. He sat on his bed and stared at nothing.

It was in his house. That pulsing and the wrongness somehow lived with him now on his mother’s hand. He didn’t know how she could stand it, if she could feel it too or if it was just him because he could recognize it from its source. An overused part of his mind strung out to hysteria by the pressure and his research and what was shaping up to be a summer of continuous horrors supplied the funny idea that even though he had lost a brother, the space had been filled by a new companion in the form of this affront to nature parading as jewelry.

The thought was not comforting.

But there was some truth to it. His parents had nearly killed and very much disowned their own blood only to turn around and invite an abomination to cohabitate with them. Because if nothing else, Regulus was now sure that there was something alive about the ring, and he’d be willing to bet that the same was true of the book and cup and locket and tiara wherever they were. The idea that an object might become a part of a person seemed less and less impossible by the day.

He thanked every deity he knew of that he’d be leaving for Hogwarts at the end of the week.

After that night, his research shifted focus to inanimate possession and theories on magical origin. He would not have expected to find it necessary to explore the various philosophical musings on where wizards derived their magic from, but his own experience with legilimency and what he’d seen in Voldemort’s head fueled his need to understand how it interacted with and depended on the self and how that relationship might be altered or, in this case, corrupted. He was sure that he was close; the disparate pieces of information swirled in his head like they were orbiting some mass that would tie them all together but that Regulus couldn’t yet see.

The day before the Hogwarts Express chugged out of Kings Cross, Regulus vacated books from the library by the armful and crammed them into his trunk next to his journals. He would continue his research at school and find answers where the Blacks’ own impressive collection had failed him.

Now as he lays in bed a week and a half into the quarter and follows the patterns on the deep green bed hangings, he has to reconsider. He hasn’t let up on his research in recent days, but the number of leads he’s found is pitiful. He’d even snuck into the Restricted Section (a laughably easy endeavor; it’s like they think the word “restricted” is all it takes to keep students out) to no avail.

He considers that it might be time to employ another one of his summer projects. Granted, this one had begun long before school let out, but when it finally came to fruition in early August, the overwhelming relief of finally having an animagus form as an escape was almost greater than the sense of accomplishment. At least Sirius was good for one thing, even if it was just the occasional inspiration.

Spending time as the cat is now the only way, besides Quidditch, that Regulus can find any sense of peace from his troubled mind. As the cat, his thoughts are pared down to cool analysis and the freeing physicality of the its natural agility. He has quite enjoyed those quiet hours watching the sunset and stars from the top of the Astronomy Tower.

Sleep begins to settle on him, casting his churning thoughts in an unfamiliar, darker hue.

He dreams of the stars arrayed above him, slowly swallowed up one at a time by a wave of roiling black that stretches from one horizon to the other.

Chapter Text

For the record, James Potter loves people.

He’s a people person, textbook definition. They’re just so engaging. And dynamic and wacky and unpredictable and incredible in so many different ways. He likes being a part of that—in the middle of it preferably—discovering new things about people all the time.

So he loves people. And the people he doesn’t love he can usually find something to appreciate about them. And the people he can’t even appreciate are usually Severus Snape.

But of all the people he loves, James especially loves his friends.

There’s something compelling about friendship to him, this idea that there are people out there who you meet by chance and who connect with you on a level so deep it’s like uncovering invisible limbs on your own family tree. James is aware that not everyone experiences friendship like this, but he has never been able to love anything in a diluted way. And he hasn’t heard any complaints from Sirius, Remus, and Peter. They, at least, are aware of how fundamental their friendship is to him and have reciprocated wholeheartedly.

James would live and die for them. Kill and create. Live and die and kill and create for these three people who have bestowed more meaning on the past six years of James’s life than he thought could be encompassed in a whole lifetime. Who would he be without them? Probably shallow and fickle and uncurious and boring. James shudders to think.

So yes, James loves his friends most of all. But sometimes, said friends can make life very difficult.

Sometimes one of these friends makes a horrific, world-altering mistake that shakes the whole tree and runs cracks through the limbs that once seemed so sturdy. Cracks that shatter trust and look a lot like betrayal from far away. And sometimes certain friends find that mistake very hard to forgive, rightfully so if you ask James but no one does. And in the aftermath of that mistake and the wreckage of a perfectly good friendship, sometimes one of those friends experiences a poorly timed epiphany concerning some rather unfortunate romantic inclinations for another one of those friends. Add in the unspeakable depravities of that friend’s home life coming to a head during Easter their sixth year at Hogwarts and that’s more than enough drama to cover James until he's 70.

But of course it doesn’t end there.

Cue a summer of Sirius newly installed at Potter Manor, bogged down by moping when Moony won’t answer his letters, pining as he’s flattened by years of backlogged attraction, paranoia cultivated by his despotic family, and a guilt so broad and multifaceted that James can’t begin to unpick the threads of it, though he knows the primary sources come at him from both sides, having to do with the capital P Prank and the half-life he left behind at Grimmauld Place.

James is more than willing to shoulder this burden with Sirius; the world saw fit to foist a brother on him, and James is looking no gift hippogriffs in the mouth.

He had thought that they would be able to sort everything out when school was back in session. Their seventh year, James can hardly believe it. Without the doldrums of summer and the weird liminal space of those months where no one really knew where they stood with anyone else, James was sure that a nice confrontation was in order. It would be painful, almost certainly, but clean, like flushing a wound. James had braced himself accordingly and told Peter to do the same in a naively optimistic letter he had sent just before September.

But sometimes friends like to make everything complicated and hard and bad and James, of the infinite patience and perpetual goodwill, is a minute away from losing his shit.

Sometimes instead of yelling and crying and apologizing and forgiving, friends see each other for the first time in months and freeze. Then they don’t say anything and spend the whole train ride politely ignoring each other in a feat of acrobatic manners James would almost be impressed with if it didn’t feel like it was putting his emotions through one of those muggle taffy-pulling machines.

Then those friends let slip a snide comment during the feast and conversation comes to a juddering halt before James or Peter snatch the first available non-inflammatory topic out of thin air to push past the suddenly toxic atmosphere. And if that wasn’t enough, sometimes friends take one weak-willed step towards potentially, maybe, sort-of apologizing before an argument breaks out. Not even a productive one either, no, that would be too simple. This argument is petty and malicious and more about dredging up bad blood and defending what scraps of pride remain between them than it is about hashing out problems. And then to tie it all off, it becomes a cycle. One that hops and skips around steps from hour to hour and day to day so James never has any idea of the madness he’s walking into when he steps foot in the dorm or sits down at breakfast.

If you had asked James last year how many days of torture he could endure before he broke, he would have estimated a good 30. It’s a bleak topic and not one of his preferred, but it’s not like he hasn’t entertained the idea of torture, at least as a concept. What with the war and the dark forces gathering against them, James is well aware that if he intends to be a soldier (and he does), then he needs to come to terms with some uncomfortable truths. So 30 days of torture seemed a reasonable estimate. Sure, he doesn’t really know what he’s getting into, but he knows himself. He’s determined, loyal, principled, and downright stubborn when he wants to be.

As it turns out, the answer is a neat ten. James lasts ten strung-out days feeling like a sleep-deprived Keeper trying to defend a dozen goal posts from a constant barrage of Quaffles coming from all directions, lest one hits its mark and his friends injure each other more than they already have. He doesn’t know how Sirius and Remus are doing it because waking up in a room with an entirely different flavor of vitriolic mood to the one he fell asleep in is taking a razor to his nerves. He does know how Pete does it when he sends an apologetic shrug James’s way before slipping out of their dorm for hours at a time and leaving him with the seething pile of dragons that is their friends.

This is how, on the eleventh day of the first term of his last year at Hogwarts, James finds himself at the top of the Astronomy Tower for some time to himself. As a rule, he doesn’t really do “alone time.” That’s for other people, and James understands perfectly well why some might need it or even enjoy it. Remus, for example, is a prime alone time enjoyer. Or as he puts it, “sometimes you idiots are so goddamn obnoxious I need to go somewhere I can hear myself think so I can remember what intelligent fucking conversation sounds like.”

Which James takes to mean the Marauders can be a bit loud but Remus still loves them.

James has never felt overwhelmed by noise or action or chaos, but if he has to spend one more moment trying to deescalate a situation or roll the dice on which version of Sirius and Remus he’s about to encounter, he may just tear his hair out, and Merlin knows his hair is already a mess as it is.

Thus commences the inaugural James-Potter-Tries-To-Be-Alone-With-His-Thoughts-For-His-Own-Wellbeing-And-In-The-Interest-Of-Not-Killing-His-Friends-Whom-He-Loves-Very-Much Solitary Retreat.

He’ll workshop the title.

The Astronomy Tower at twilight occupies a space between the airy reaches of its arches open to the last rays of sunset and the gathering shadows cast by monolith telescope machinery. James trudges past and wishes he were currently the kind of person who could find poetry in that dichotomy or at least appreciate the scene it creates, but the truth is he’s too caught up in Remus’s latest bout of icy silence and its counterpart in Sirius’s projected misery to care. He passes through an archway and out onto the balcony that wraps around the tower where he finally catches himself on the iron railing and lets out the first full breath he’s dared to breathe in over a week. He takes a moment to close his eyes and squeeze the rail, letting the cold metal bite indentations into his palms. When he opens them again, he studies the line where the Forbidden Forest meets the sky as a jagged black silhouette. Pressed up against the rail as he is, James can’t even see the rest of castle in his peripheral and the sky feels so close and so big it seems impossible that anything could poison it. James’s shoulders loosen a bit and he flexes his fingers.

So. Alone time. He can do this.

If he’s honest with himself the whole concept baffles him. What does one think about during alone time? Are you meant to be thinking at all? Now he feels like he’s overthinking it. He supposes he could try to brainstorm some miracle solution to his little Sirius&Remus problem except, no, he’s here specifically not to think about them. This is a Sirius&Remus free zone. So that’s out of the question.

Surely he’s done this before. But when he thinks back on the quieter moments of his life most of them are occupied by studying or reading a book or following his mother’s instructions as he helps her make bread in the kitchen. Of course there have been things that have troubled James at night as he lies in bed, but he prefers to deal with those by poking his head through Sirius’s curtains and jumping on his mattress to discuss them. He usually only finds himself sleepless on the nights before a Quidditch match, nerves and excitement warring in his stomach while he runs plays in his head. He’s never adverse to thinking about Quidditch, but it’s so early in the season it feels useless to try to plan too far ahead.

James groans and slumps down onto the rail, rubbing his tired eyes and dislodging his glasses in the process. Why is this so difficult for him? Alone time is kicking his ass with its ambiguous criteria and lack of a clear goal.

Maybe he should owl Effie. She’s a wise woman in all matters of the mind and heart. James has many memories of her sitting alone in the back garden absorbing a rare day of sun, perfectly content with the silence and stillness. He and Monty know better than to disturb her at times like these, but she comes back into the house refreshed and relaxed so they don’t question whatever magic she’s working when she’s on her own. Somehow James doesn’t think he’s capable of that, at least not in the same way. And wouldn’t asking her what to think about defeat the whole purpose of the exercise? He’s supposed to come up with these things himself. It feels too much like cheating. Can he cheat at this? Is alone time even something James can win or lose at? He hopes not cause if it is, he’s definitely losing.

James sighs and leans his back to the rail, resting on his elbows and tilting his head to watch the first of the stars slip out of the indigo sky above him. So far he’s only succeeded in complicating something that doesn’t technically require him to do anything. He’s got to be the first person in the world to be this thoroughly crippled by the chance to think about whatever he wants. It’s a bit pathetic.

Then, with the keen eye of a person only truly desperate for distraction, James notices a small motion near the archway. His head pops up and he squints into the gloom. Students rarely come up here without reason, but he’s ready to send them to bed if tonight is an exception. Between his Head Boyness and his James Potterness he has more than enough authority to turn them around. But there’s no one there, at least not that James can see.

He’s a bit worried his brain has resorted to constructing hallucinations to keep him sane in this vacuum of stimulus (all ten minutes of it), when he sees the motion again close to the top of the arch.

On a ledge of protruding stone that runs the outer length of the tower sits a cat. It’s no wonder that James missed it the first time because it blends in almost seamlessly with the dark stone and the night. The cat is so completely black James thinks it must qualify as a new color; he half wonders if his fingers would disappear if he were to run them through that fur, swallowed up by a total absence of light. Following the proud line of the cat’s spine, James can just make out the suggestion of perked ears on a head held high. Had the cat not moved, the only thing that might give away its presence is a pair of practically luminescent silver eyes.

Eyes that are decidedly watching James.

“Oh,” James says. He doesn’t really mean to, but he feels like he’s been caught out at something. The cat is not helping either, stare still locked firmly on where James stands at the railing as if it’s waiting for him to do something that might redeem himself. James feels his face heat.

“Um.” Not much better. The cat seems equally unimpressed with his eloquence. James rubs the back of his neck in discomfort but can’t look away from it.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think anyone else was here.” And he doesn’t really know why he feels the need to apologize to a cat, but the way it watches him makes him think it witnessed the whole bout of dramatics and found him lacking. It’s not hard to feel small under the imperious scrutiny of a creature who reminds James just a bit too much of a sphinx.

“I’m trying out some time to myself,” James blurts out. “It’s, uh, harder than it sounds actually.” The darkness gives the cat the upper hand here, but James thinks he sees a movement around the eyes that mimics a raised eyebrow. Can cats do that?

“Not that that means you’re not welcome,” he scrambles to clarify. “You’re more than welcome. In fact it’s probably better you’re here. I wasn’t really getting anywhere with it.” This time the cat’s look says Clearly.

James runs his hand through his hair. This cat is stressing him the fuck out.

Time to switch tactics.

“I’m James,” he says, pushing off the railing and striding towards the tower wall with that patented James Potter Confidence, even if it’s mostly a sham. The cat tenses at his approach, following him with its eyes the whole time. “I swear I didn’t know you were here or I would have introduced myself earlier.”

He stops under where the cat sits on the ledge about half a meter above his eyeline and extends his hand up towards it.

“I promise I’m not always this scattered, it’s just been-” The cat doesn’t give him time to finish. As soon as his hand even gets close, it turns tail and bolts along the ledge out of sight.

“Wait! You don’t have to-” But there really is no one there to listen this time. He thinks briefly about going after it before squashing that idea, too aware of how easily it could hide from him in the deepening dark and the general rules of propriety that strongly advise against chasing unwilling conversation partners (he’s learned that particular lesson, thank you).

James drops his hand. He swings his arms as he turns away like he didn’t really want to talk to it anyway.

The night is complete now, with more stars appearing every minute, but James has no real reason to stay. His first attempt at alone time started with him in crisis and ended with him holding a very one-sided chat with an animal, so it’s safe to say he has room to improve.

He smooths his hair again then stuffs his hands in his pockets. He takes one more moment to look around and savor the quiet before bracing himself to step back into his life.

As he makes his way into the tower and back down the stairs, he tries not to acknowledge the disappointment he feels at the cat’s dismissal. After all, if he took every cat’s judgement personally, he’d never have time to feel anything else.

*

James is back to what he fears might be his new usual level of distress by Transfiguration the next day.

Despite its brevity and confusing lack of productivity, James found that last night’s “alone time” actually did clear his head enough to send him into an undisturbed sleep. That, of course, bled into an undisturbed oversleep and left him hopping down the stairs trying to pull his pants on as he rushed to the Quidditch pitch fifteen minutes late for morning practice. He avoided Marlene’s concerned stare as he apologized to the team and slapped on an admittedly frantic version of his customary cheer.

Between that and a botched potion and a tense lunch (apparently Peter had walked in on Remus berating Sirius for his clothes encroaching on some invisible boundary of the dorm room floor), James was of the opinion that his afternoon could only improve.

Like, it had to. James needed it to.

And yet, as he sits at his desk next to Sirius towards the end of the Transfiguration lesson, it appears as if it does not in fact have to get better. Fate, it seems, has an endless supply of Fuck You, James-es to dole out at its leisure.

Sirius has not paused for a minute in his whispered rant picking apart every miniscule piece of Remus’s behavior. It’s nearing the hour, and James counts the seconds until class is dismissed, bobbing his head occasionally to give the appearance of his attention.

“-and he had the gall to ask when I was going to grow up and actually start cleaning up after myself as if he doesn’t leave his fucking books where everyone can trip over them and break their necks. It’s like he’s just bloody moved in and hasn’t lived there for the past six years, it’s not like any of our habits have changed, he just wants another reason to have a go-”

“Mr. Black, Mr. Potter, if you cannot be bothered to interrupt your conversation for the lesson perhaps you would like to continue it in detention this evening.” Professor McGonagall doesn’t even have to turn away from the board to deliver their sentence.

It shuts Sirius up though, and James figures he’s not doing anything else tonight—not hanging out in their room losing their minds over some story or other Peter picked up in the halls, not playing Exploding Snap or bothering the girls—so he might as bloody well spend the time in detention.

He out waits the last few minutes of class enjoying Sirius’s silence.

In the halls, Sirius glares at Remus like it’s his fault he has detention. Remus meets it unflinchingly, dead-eyed and apathetic. Peter takes the opportunity to scurry away, muttering something about studying with Mary, so Sirius finds Marlene and slings an arm around her shoulders, loudly asking about her progress on the Transfiguration essay as they set their course for the common room. And if Sirius has the common room, that means Remus will head anywhere but.

James sighs and wonders when they started dividing up territory like parents in a divorce.

“Want to work on the essay in the library?” James asks.

“Sure.”

So they work on the essay in the library.

It’s not how James thought their seventh year would start. Maybe it’s juvenile, but in his mind all their time at Hogwarts built up to this, the year when they were on top with six years of rock-solid friendship at their backs and bright futures ahead of them. Of course that vision had already started to deteriorate with the attacks on muggle-borns and the frightening headlines that dominated the front page of the Prophet sometimes (more and more it seemed), but James was nothing if not an optimist. They would have their last hurrah at Hogwarts then join the cause and help save the wizarding world. Together, like they did everything.

But the rift between Sirius and Remus ran deep and was more justified than James liked to admit. If he was feeling honest with himself, it kind of scared him; he was so used to being sure about things and he had always been so sure about his friends that the uncertainty ate at him. If six years of friendship was all they got when James had been certain they would make fun of each other as grey old men, then nothing was really set in stone. Maybe he would spend the rest of his days visiting each of them individually, spinning his own weak threads to keep them connected as their anger cooled to detachment and they grew further and further apart.

It was a bleak prospect. James hates it.

The depression of it all doesn’t do him any favors where he sits next to Remus and makes essentially no progress on his essay. Remus writes line after line with a tenacity that hints more to his trying not to think about anything else than it does to a vested interest in the subject. James focuses on the sunbeam leaving a pleasant heat along his back where he’s removed his robes and the ambient sounds of their distant corner of the library: the shuffle of books rearranging themselves, a stray giggle from the girls a few tables over, and the rather emphatic conversation between two boys as they draw closer to where James and Remus sit.

“-not so much about a lack of support—no one says they love children more than politicians—as it is an issue of precedent. What law that already exists says essentially the same thing as we want this one to? And it has to be recent, it can’t be like an eleventh century law that lets the king whisk kids away from their families to give him foot massages or something, that’s no good-”

“No, of course not.”

“-right so we need something that’s on the books and in good standing, hasn’t been nullified by another case-”

“Not just common law either. ”

“Exactly, that’s not enough, so we should really be looking for someone who might know something about minor law-”

“Someone who perhaps has family involved with it-”

“Maybe a parent-”

“A father-”

“Maybe,”—the two boys pull out the chairs right across from James and Remus and sit down at the same time—“Remus Lupin.”

James is shocked out of his daze by the sudden appearance of Barty Crouch and Evan Rosier. Remus’s head pops up at the sound of his name. Crouch and Rosier watch Remus with vaguely interested expressions and continue their conversation with each other.

“Aw yeah, Lupin,” Rosier says. “Which one’s he?”

“The fit one, you know?” Crouch responds, leaning his chair back on two legs. “Tall-”

“Wears the sweaters-”

“Lovely eyes-”

“Lot of raw sex appeal-”

“That’s the one.”

Remus looks at them like he’s just seen Madame Pince sing the Montrose Magpies fight song. They stare back with matching smiles. James’s mouth is surely hanging open.

Finally Remus says, “Can I help you?”

“Oh, Mr. Lupin!” Crouch lets his chair fall forward with a muted thump. “The man of the hour!”

“We were just talking about you,” Rosier says, nodding his head sagely.

“All good things of course.”

“The very best.”

“You see, Evan and I have a rather pressing enquiry that could use someone of your-”

“-expertise and connections-”

“-exactly that, and we think you might be the man for the job. What do you say?”

Crouch leans forward, puts his arms on the table. As if in response, Rosier leans back in his chair with a relaxed posture and folds his hands. They both focus their attention on Remus and wait for his response.

Remus does not seem to have recovered from the ambush. “What do I say to what?”

Crouch doesn’t waste a moment: “What do you know of laws concerning the care and guardianship of underage werewolves?”

The question is so abrupt and neatly worded that it could be nothing but a planned attack. James knows Remus well enough to see the blood draining from his face, the scar across his nose standing out whiter. He puts his quill down carefully and grips the arms of his chair. James decides to intervene, draw their attention from where it pins Remus to his seat.

“Why do you ask?”

Crouch spares him no notice and searches Remus’s eyes for another long moment. James holds his breath like he knows Remus is doing beside him. Then, like he’s broken out of a spell, the intensity is gone and Crouch leans back in his seat to mirror Rosier.

“Well, as a hypothetical exercise-”

“-purely hypothetical-”

“-say there’s some need to remove a child from the custody of their family for the safety of the child and family both-”

“-and the ministry had full authority to do that, perhaps even for the public interest-”

“-we just thought, what with your father’s history with werewolf legislation, you might have a better idea of-”

“-if anything like that had been passed into law before?”

Remus is silent for another moment before the slightest bit of tension seeps out of his shoulders. Evidently their interest is with his father, but James is still on his guard. Crouch and Rosier have a goal in mind, something they want to know badly enough to drop down at the table of two people they’ve never spoken to before for reasons greater than their separate years and houses. They’re smart about it too, intentionally disarming, switching from nonthreatening to severe by the moment, not to mention a completely natural tag team that could give Sirius and James a run for their money. James feels shoved off balance and on the defensive, likely the exact result Crouch and Rosier were going for.

He leaves it to Remus to take the lead on how they’ll deal with this but presses his foot to Remus’s under the table to let him know he’s there.

Remus takes a deep breath. “Well,” he starts, “I don’t really know much about his work. I don’t have much interest in it”—a lie if only because his disdain for it still technically counts as interest—"but I know he’d written up a proposal for something similar some years ago. I think it was pretty shredded by the time it made it through, but the original premise was essentially the same.”

Crouch and Rosier consider this for a minute.

“The proposed law would have removed underaged werewolves from their families?” Rosier asks.

“I don’t think it was removal really. More like enforced containment once a month at a Ministry facility, a bit like they have for the adults. Even if the family could prove they had adequate protections in place.”

“But the Ministry still had the jurisdiction to dictate the motions of a minor?”

“Even just a legally required awareness, that could be enough,” Rosier says more softly to Crouch.

Crouch tilts his head to look back at Rosier. “But shouldn’t we try-”

“You know we can’t overreach. It’ll be tight as it is.”

Crouch hums like he’s not entirely satisfied but doesn’t disagree with whatever the hell that aside was. They refocus on Remus, who’s begun fidgeting with the cuffs of his sweater.

“Any chance you remember the justification behind your father’s proposal?” Crouch asks.

“Um. There was a lot of different stuff. Always is. Something about child welfare and community safety procedures.”

“Mmhmm and the year?”

“Merlin, I don’t know. It was a while ago. ‘72? Maybe it was ratified in ’73?” Remus swipes a hand through his hair.

Crouch studies Remus through shrewd eyes.

“And could you direct us to the legal studies portion of the library?”

“For fuck’s sake, I don’t fucking know where the bloody law books are, alright?”

There’s a collective breath held after Remus’s outburst. Then-

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Lupin, you’ve been a real help,” Crouch says.

“Just a lifesaver,” Rosier agrees as they get up from their chairs.

“Never change. We’ll see you around.”

“Perhaps in our dreams,” Rosier adds as they walk away in step with each other.

“And what sweet dreams they would be.”

“With a face like that-”

“If only we were so lucky, Evan.”

And with that, they turn the corner and disappear behind a bookshelf as suddenly as they arrived.

James and Remus sit in stunned silence. Then Remus reaches forward and slams his Transfiguration textbook shut.

“What in Godric’s soggy ballsack was that?”

James can only watch as Remus begins throwing his ink and quill into his bag. “I have no idea.”

“That was a fucking interrogation is what it was,” Remus says, rolling up his parchment with what James thinks might be an excess of hostility. “Tell me James, why was I just interrogated?”

“I have no idea,” he says again. He blows out a breath and rubs his eyes under his glasses, then begins to gather his own things more slowly. “To me it looked more like you were being aggressively flirted with.”

“What the fuck could they possibly want with underage werewolf law?” Remus shoulders his bag and looks where Crouch and Rosier slid out of view. James can still see the paranoia in his coiled stance. He grabs his own bag and drops a hand on Remus’s shoulder.

“Look mate, whatever it was, they were clearly in it for the law stuff. I don’t think there’s any reason to get too worried over it.”

Remus doesn’t seem completely convinced, but he turns away and starts out of the library. “I need to eat something. Or break something.”

“Let’s say we do the first one.” James pats Remus’s shoulder and subtly steers him towards the Great Hall. “It’s almost dinner time.”

“Is it just me or are they fucking mental?” Remus asks.

“Oh, they’re mental alright,” James agrees. “Excellent taste in men, though.”

“Merlin, shut it.” But there’s a blush on Remus’s cheeks as he says it. James grins.

“Can’t deny they know a good one when they see him.”

“James-”

“Think they want you for a third?”

“James!”

*

Detention that night sees James back in the Transfiguration classroom with Professor McGonagall. When they’d arrived after dinner, she had sent Sirius off with a levitating cart of various items and animals to be delivered to professors around the castle, things she no longer needed for her lessons. To James she had assigned the task of correcting poorly transfigured shoes back into their original form after the third years had gotten ahold of them.

James doesn’t mind the work; he’s always enjoyed transfiguration and the process is monotonous and easy if not slightly amusing when he comes across the occasional Oxford with hedgehog ears. From her desk, Professor McGonagall marks essays by lamplight.

James has just moved on to the stilettos when McGonagall interrupts the silence.

“Mr. Potter, how has your semester begun?”

James is caught a bit off guard for the second time today. “Um. It’s just fine, thanks. Great, actually. Seventh year and all.”

McGonagall looks up from her latest essay. She doesn’t seem like she believes him, but he’s always been a shit liar.

“How are your friends?”

James messes with his hair and leans back in his chair. “Oh, you know. I guess things are still a bit tense right now. But what can you do.”

“And how are you?”

“I’m fine,” James says. He’s sure he’s a bit wide-eyed at the sudden attention. “I’m all good.”

McGonagall rests her quill and folds her hands together. “Forgive me for being so direct, Mr. Potter, but you do not seem to be ‘all good’ from where I am sitting.”

She waits for him to absorb that, and he finally slumps in his seat. He had kind of forgotten that there are other people in this castle who know all the horrid details of what happened last April. He’s so used to not talking about it with the Marauders and evading the topic with the girls that to have someone willing to look at it head on is a bit of a novelty.

“I don’t know. It’s all so complicated and nasty.” He toys with the shoe in his hands as McGonagall hums in agreement. “I guess I just wish something would happen, you know? Like things can’t stay like this. No one can keep this up forever, it’s just not possible.”

“It is a very difficult situation to sort through, and you all are awfully young to have to sort through it.”

James looks up at that. He hadn’t considered that they’re young. He doesn’t feel very young. He feels all mature and responsible and already weighed down by burdens bigger than himself, but he supposes that to Professor McGonagall they might look very young indeed.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” he says helplessly. “I keep trying to patch things up so that there’s something left of us when it finally gets resolved, but it’s driving me up a wall and it’s not even working.”

McGonagall takes a moment to think through what he’s said, and James appreciates that she actually considers his words and doesn’t just respond with some rote adultism.

“Have you considered, Mr. Potter, that this is not yours to fix?”

James squints in confusion. “But they’re my friends. I don’t want them to regret not doing something about it when they could.”

“Exactly right, Mr. Potter, but it is they who must do the fixing.” Professor McGonagall adjusts her glasses and continues, “You have dealt with the situation admirably already. You have refused to choose sides, you’ve made yourself available to help a friend in need when he needed it most, and you have made it clear to both Mr. Black and Mr. Lupin that your forgiveness has been granted. I am sure that having that forgiveness goes a long way to prove to both of them that this is a forgivable situation in the first place.”

James remains silent, stuck to his seat by this whole new perspective.

“But,” McGonagall says, “You would be doing your friends a disservice and a disrespect if you denied them this opportunity to sort through their personal problems on their own. I trust you agree that Mr. Black and Mr. Lupin are indeed very close friends at heart?”

They way she’s looking at him makes James think that she perhaps means something else, but he says, “Yeah, definitely.”

“Then it is imperative that they learn to communicate with each other and talk through their concerns and injuries sooner rather than later. There will surely be no future for them together if they cannot sort this out now. Besides, they already do so much to improve each other, it would be a shame if they were to give up not just their friendship but the best version of themselves with it.”

James feels like he’s been hit in the head by a Bludger. How one person can continue to say things that are so wise and so true will always be a mystery to him. He half wishes he could get Professor McGonagall in the same room with his mother just to see what kind of lifechanging philosophy they could come up with over tea.

“You’re very wise, Professor.”

“Indeed, Mr. Potter. Now, from what I understand, you find yourself with a bit of extra time this semester.”

And of course she’s caught on to that as well. James supposes that it might be a bit more obvious than he’s assumed, if only because he’s never before been caught wandering the halls or gazing out windows listlessly while his friends ice each other out.

“I guess so.”

“And what have you been doing with this time, might I ask?”

“Well, I’ve still got the Quidditch team. Lots to think about there. And NEWTS of course, can’t forget those.” It sounds lame even to James’s ears. “I did try out some alone time the other night. Not sure how that went.”

He doesn’t mention that it ended with him chatting up a cat.

“A worthwhile project, I think,” McGonagall says. “If you are taking advice, Mr. Potter…”

James sits up straighter and says, “Please. I’m all ears.”

“While your friends work out how to incorporate each other back into their lives, perhaps you can use this time to incorporate yourself into your own life.”

James is sure he looks confused again, but McGonagall raises a brow like she knows he’s smarter than this.

“We must all be comfortable with ourselves, Mr. Potter. And it seems you’ve already realized this.” She sits forward again and takes up her quill. “Find a new hobby, maybe a new friend.”

James is about to protest, but she beats him to it. “I am not suggesting you make replacements, James. I have no doubt there is space in your life for additional friends. You have never been reserved with your time or company before.”

James sits back corrected.

“It is not irresponsible of you to take a step back from a situation that does you more harm than good. I have full confidence that you will be there for your friends when Mr. Black and Mr. Lupin decide to make amends. Until that time, I am sure that there are myriad ways to engage yourself. After all, most students in this castle have not had the pleasure of Mr. Black’s and Mr. Lupin’s constant companionship, and yet they still find themselves more than satisfied with their time here.”

James nods slowly. McGonagall returns to her essay satisfied.

“I will keep an eye out for you should an opportunity come to my attention.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

James stares for a long time at the ugly purple high heel in his hands. He has a lot to think about as he transfigures it into a loafer.

Chapter Text

Regulus knows a thing or two about reputation. He probably learned the word earlier than most children; it was a staple of his mother’s vocabulary during the painful lessons schooling her children on their behavior. He knows how it’s perceived, how to cultivate it, how to wield it. He knows how important it is that you know your own reputation.

His reputation at Hogwarts serves its purpose. He’s the heir to the House of Black and he leaves no one any room to question that. It’s supported by his stellar grades, his aloof attitude, his performance on the Quidditch pitch, his meticulous grooming, his scathing tongue, his polite but distant manners to professors, and his dismissal of any students who are not his friends. He’s aware there’s a kind of general interest in his person, either as the mysterious figure set to inherit unimaginable power and wealth, or as one half of a very public fracturing of sibling bonds, or, at its very lowest form, as another pretty face wandering the halls. He does nothing to dispel any of these, figures he doesn’t owe anyone answers about his life so they can wonder all they want.

It's not even an effort to maintain his masks at this point. It’s like he’s worn them long enough that they’ve become true, stuck to his face and too painful to excise now that they’ve grafted. He appears cool and collected at all times because he simply is, has to be. He seems to breeze through classes effortlessly because he does (that much at least was always true). He never gives away a hint of interest in anyone else because he’s just not interested; he has his friends and he trusts them and that’s all he needs.

The Monday morning of his third week of classes, however, might just undo all of that hard work.

Regulus sits at breakfast under the concerned eyes of his friends in a state that he’s sure no one has ever seen him in. Even the days following Sirius’s departure, when he’d had to take the train back to school after Easter pretending the seat cushions didn’t dig into the barely healed stripes left by Walburga’s laceros, pretending that seeing his brother sitting thigh to thigh with James Potter two tables away didn’t make him want to set himself on fire, he had carried himself with the same air of indifference that he always did. No one was the wiser.

This is completely different.

Regulus can feel the dark circles tracing the curves of his eyes. He’s been staring at one spot on the floor of the Great Hall for at least seven minutes now, and he’s hunched over the table with wild hair tangled up in one hand while the other grips a spoon submerged in tea gone cold.

Someone to his left lightly touches his shoulder, and he flinches so hard the tea spoon gives a resonant ding against the side of the cup.

Dorcas pulls her hand back and watches him warily. “Reg, what the hell is wrong?”

He appreciates that she skips over the “Are you alright?” because he knows he does not pass for alright. Can’t even pretend to after last night.

Last night. Regulus can hardly think about it and at the same time he absolutely cannot stop.

For the past week or so, Regulus has cornered his professors after class feigning an interest in their research projects for his career considerations after school. He let them forget for a moment that Blacks didn’t choose careers, certainly not ones in academia. (Not that he would be opposed. He actually thought he would quite like it, but the idea of the Black heir with a nine to five job might actually stop his mother’s heart. On second thought, perhaps he should consider it.) He’d already had his suspicions about which professors would be more likely to have contact with the dark arts and the metaphysics of magic in their research, but it paid to be thorough.

Unsurprisingly, the new DADA teacher this year seemed the most promising. She was a grizzled old witch with a number of scars and a few fingers on her left hand that didn’t move quite right anymore, rumored to be incapacitated after making contact with a particularly nasty lampshade. Where Dumbledore found these people was beyond Regulus, but he’d lodge no complaints if she had what he needed.

He’d affected a particularly convincing interest in her work with cursed objects. She was happy to regale him with stories about her time working with Gringotts as a Dangerous Asset Manager. Apparently, there was no regulation against keeping cursed objects in a Gringotts vault; in fact, some could be quite valuable (something that came as no surprise to a Black when half their house was a Gringotts vault of cursed objects).

As fascinating as it all was, Regulus really needed to steer her more towards the hypothetical. So he asked about her personal research, about how one became a philosopher of magical objects and why was it so important in the first place?

This of course sent her down a tangent so meandering and impassioned that the arrival of the next class cut it short, but Regulus had all he needed. With the assistance of some light probing of her more immediate thoughts, Regulus had been able to determine that a good deal of her research surrounded cursed objects of the variety that couldn’t be brought up in casual conversation.

Regulus had worked off of less.

Over the next few days, he would sneak into the DADA classroom after supper as the cat. He was lucky that the office was attached to the classroom and that Professor Venicella didn’t feel the need to close her door. Between the heavy shadows and excessive clutter, the cat had no trouble finding a hiding place with good sight lines around the room. If she was in, he would watch her work and make note of where she kept the key, which books she locked away, what her habits were. If she was out, he would peruse her bookshelves for anything that might be of use to him.

On Saturday night, he finally struck gold.

He’d squeezed himself between an old trunk and a teetering stack of papers next to Professor Venicella’s desk and watched her puzzle over a student’s incomprehensible quiz answers. When the clock struck eleven, she sighed and collected her work. Then she gathered various books cluttering her desk and sorted them onto stacks and shelves in accordance with a system that Regulus could now confirm no one but she had any hope of understanding. The last book she tied with a leather strap and set on her chair. Then she pulled a small footlocker Regulus had never seen before out from under her desk and unlocked it with the keys in the righthand drawer.

The dark and the distance did little to reveal its contents to Regulus, but a few books rattled with discontent, and titles stood out with gold embossed words: Sentience in Insentient Spaces, When Things Think, The 1977 European Registry of Absolutely Illegal Magical Items.

Any one of them could have what Regulus needed, and the sudden proximity of substantive answers sent a thrill through him that raised the fur on the cat’s body. He was practically giddy with the thought, though that giddiness on the cat translated to only a twitch of his nose.

He slipped out the door and down the stairs before he got locked in for the night.

On Sunday he returned, and this time he allowed the door to lock with him still inside. He waited an excruciating 30 minutes just to make sure Professor Venicella didn’t have any second thoughts and return for some riveting late-night grading before he slunk out of the shelf he’d tucked away in. He transformed in the middle of the room (the only place with space enough to do so) and strode behind the desk.

He dug the keyring out of the drawer and hauled the footlocker onto the desk where he could see it better from the light of his wand. Then he examined the keys closely and selected the one that matched the design of the box and the size of the keyhole. Nasty things could happen when the wrong key was used on an enchanted box, and Regulus didn’t feel like taking chances. Once the box was open, he wasted no time spreading out its contents and assessing his options.

Many of the volumes focused on cursed items and their effects, which Regulus ruled out. He reasoned that if the five objects were cursed in this way, Walburga wouldn’t have been able to wear the ring safely. He also avoided the blatantly irrelevant titles, some of which covered regions of land that seemed to possess consciousness, a particularly niche text on aggression in animated tea kettles, and, oddly enough, an issue of Better Homes and Gardens magazine.

That left him with six books to sort through before morning.

Two hours into his reading, Regulus thought that he could probably ace an exam on the mechanics of inorganic consciousness.

Four hours in, he decided he could teach the class.

Five hours in, he decided never mind, he wanted nothing to do with it ever again cause it’s all so useless and he hates it so much.

Six hours in, he wasn’t even processing the sentences anymore, just picking up every third word or so.

But it seemed that every third word was enough because at six hours and forty two minutes into reading through an illicit collection of advanced magical theory, Regulus stumbled onto the one page that rearranged his whole brain.

If he’d had to bet which book would have housed the answers he sought, it wouldn’t have been the one about ghosts. Then again, maybe the answer wasn’t just in one book. After six solid hours wading through conceptions of the wizard’s relationship to magic and how it could be employed to bestow sentience on ordinary objects, Regulus wouldn’t be surprised if all the other books put him in the right frame of mind to recognize this one measly page as the lynchpin of the whole mystery.

The volume was titled Material and the Magical Self: Reflections on Hauntings, Possessions, and the Remnants of Life in the Physical World, and it had just barely scraped by Regulus’s cut for the relevant pile. He’d saved it until last because he’d been sure that he’d come across something more tenable in the other books.

But sitting there in incongruously innocent typeset on page 414 was the word “Horcruxes.”

Regulus did not know what a Horcrux was. There was no reason for his exhausted brain to snag on it. Maybe it was the x at the end that had caught his attention, just different enough from the blur of other letters to rouse his attention for a moment.

And what a moment it was.

The few paragraphs were vague and noncommittal, like the author had just written whatever they remembered from what someone else had told them. But what it did say painted a picture of depravity beyond anything Regulus thought magic was capable of.

It spoke of splitting the soul, literally, physically breaking it apart. There was no theory or experimentation to back it up, just an assurance that it could happen and that it did at one point.

The sketch in the corner was small and of low quality. It depicted a corroded cloak pin that the text identified as the first and only instance of Horcrux creation from the fourteenth century. No information on how it came to be, no information on what happened to it. The only thing it supplied was a paraphrased account of its effect on the people unlucky enough to come into contact with it: “Characterized as causing unease and disagreeableness to those in its vicinity.”

Regulus could safely say that those qualities persisted.

The whole thing was completely fucked, but it only became worse when Regulus read the last paragraph.

The point behind Horcruxes was basic enough. Put simply, if you didn’t have all of your soul in your body, then not all of you could die when your body was killed. So, if you’re a psycho with a lot of people out to get you, you find another “body” to stash away chipped off shard of the soul. Pretty sweet deal until you read the fine print, which helpfully states that the only way to facilitate the process of breaking up the soul and relocating a piece of it is through intentional ritualistic murder.

Then again, Regulus thought half deliriously, if you’re the kind of person willing to split your soul in the first place, you’ve probably already graduated from moral hangups about killing people.

Regulus fell back to the stone floor just as the first light of dawn began to stain the bookshelf opposite the window.

The ring was a Horcrux.

It felt like a living thing because it kind of was.

It was Lord Voldemort. At least part of him.

The weird gaps he had noticed in the worm of his consciousness and in that horrible pulsing, pulsing like a dislocated heartbeat, made sense now. They were actual empty spaces left by the absence of his soul. Taken up instead by the representation of the ring. And the tiara. And…

Regulus’s ears had started ringing, either with lack of sleep or his brain finally giving in to the answers that it refused to stop churning out now that he had the missing piece.

The ring and the tiara. And the book. And the cup. And the locket.

The ghost book never said anything about only splitting the soul once.

Regulus let out one hopeless sob, covered his face with his hands and tried to slow his hyperventilating.

Five Horcruxes. They were all so fucked.

Regulus was so fucked. For Merlin’s sake, he was the only one that even bloody knew.

Wasn’t he supposed to be worried about the fucking Quidditch match or the next Slytherin party? Not whether a maniac who had willingly dissected the most fundamental part of his being through systematic murder was going to kill him in his sleep for stumbling into his secret?

He half wondered if his death would be the catalyst for yet another Horcrux. What an honor.

In the face of this paralyzing realization, the majority of Regulus’s brain sort of shut down. The small part that still functioned took over motor skills and that one area that housed the mantra don’t get caught.

He sat up. He duplicated the page on Horcruxes. He closed all the books and tucked them away in the footlocker in the same order he had found them. He closed the box and locked it, slid it under the desk and put the keys away.

Then he transformed into the cat and the hurricane of unthinkable thoughts was blessedly muted into a distant gale, waiting for him when he’d inevitably reoccupy his own mind.

Professor Venicella unlocked her office at 7:30, and Regulus slipped out when her back was turned.

He had enough time to change into his school robes before Barty and Evan stirred from their sleep.

Now, with Evan, Barty, and Dorcas all staring at him like he was bleeding out of his eyes, he can admit that there really is no hiding the issue at hand. If he had to guess, he probably looks like he’s been up all night overindulging in literature that will haunt him for the rest of his life.

Regulus is vaguely aware he’s been asked a question. “What?”

Dorcas sits back to get a fuller picture of him. “Merlin, Reg, what happened last night?”

“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” Evan says.

“No, worse than that,” Barty adds. “You look like you haven’t slept in days and someone just killed your dog in front of you.”

It takes Regulus longer than he would like to process that one. Then he shakes his head. “Nothing happened.”

“Sure it didn’t. Want to try again?”

Regulus glares at Barty. “Nothing happened.”

“I still don’t believe him. Do you, Cas?” Evan asks, folding his arms on the table.

“Not even a little.”

Regulus drags his tea closer and takes one cold mouthful before he decides he has no appetite for it. “It’s not my job to convince you.”

“Yeah, see that’s even more fucked up that you think we’re asking to be reassured of your completely normal okayness so we can go back to being air-headed dolts with not a care in the world,” Dorcas says.

“Personally, I’ve used up all my air-headed dolt minutes for this month and I’m itching for a juicy problem or a crushing reality check to carry me through the next couple of weeks.” Barty rubs his hands together and leans forward. “What have you got for us Reg? Make it something good.”

There’s no escaping the fervent energy of his friends when they’ve sniffed out a problem. They could volley their concern back and forth to each other like a well-intentioned, extremely irritating game of badminton until you put a stop to it for your own sanity.

Luckily, Regulus has had years of practice.

“Are we still meeting to discuss your progress in the world of legal studies later?”

This diversion might be a bit more obvious and clunky than his usual, but it works. Evan and Barty both sober and lean back on their bench.

“Yeah, we have some good ideas,” Evan says. “We can probably send the next letter tonight.”

“Same place then? After practice?”

“Sure.”

Regulus nods and stirs his gross tea a few more times for something to do. Evan and Barty reluctantly go back to picking at their food. Regulus can still feel Dorcas’s eyes on him from his left and knows she’s not convinced.

She and Pandora are not involved in their current project; Evan, Barty, and Regulus had all agreed the less they heard about the whole Death Eater thing, the better. Regulus is in it too deep already, and it’s only a matter of time before Evan’s father gets jealous and drags him into the mix. Barty just shrugged and said that if they were going to join a cult it was unfair that they didn’t invite him along. But Dorcas and Pandora have no reason to get mixed up in it if they don’t have to.

That doesn’t mean they don’t know about it.

Dorcas had found them during their second meeting and walked in with Pandora at her side demanding to know why they were behaving like gossiping first years and neglecting their friends.

It didn’t surprise Regulus that the two of them had found out; Dorcas was as stubborn and clever as the best of them, and Pandora just knows things. The two together are a formidable combination. Dorcas had sat down and refused to leave until they got what she considered an adequate explanation and apology. Regulus had given them the watered down version of what he’d told Evan and Barty, that he was being slowly sucked into a terrorist organization against his will and that they were looking for a way out, or at least a delay.

Dorcas’s face had softened at that, and Pandora just watched Regulus with an expression of solemn understanding. It was different seeing people realize the immediacy of the greater world and all its dangers in real time; Regulus had just blinked and suddenly found himself starring in the nightmare.

They both offered to help but admitted a rather limited knowledge of the Wizengamot and legislation practices. Regulus assured them that they were well on their way to a viable solution and that he would consult them first if he needed assistance. They had accepted this without protest.

Dorcas hasn’t tried to insert herself in their project again, but Regulus also has not failed to notice that she’s taken up watching him more closely. He thinks she’s assigned herself the task of looking after his wellbeing until such a time as she finds another more substantive way to make herself useful.

It would be touching, if it weren’t currently putting him in a position where he has to lie to her.

Regulus lets Barty and Evan shepherd him to their first class, grateful that it’s potions. He won’t even have to use his crippled brain for that.

*

By the time Quidditch practice rolls around that evening Regulus is in a slightly better state.

He can think again, and he’s used the monotony of the day to sort through what he’s learned. He’s come up with a disturbing but pleasingly simple list of conclusions.

1. Lord Voldemort has created five Horcruxes using three Founders' Objects, a ring, and a book.
2. As long as the Horcruxes remain, Voldemort cannot die.
3. This is bad.
4. As far as Regulus is aware, he is the only person besides Lord Voldemort who knows about the Horcruxes. They work best when they are kept secret, so chances are Voldemort isn’t rushing to tell anyone about this particular project.
5. Voldemort does not know that Regulus knows.
6. Regulus has seen the ring and he knows where it is located. Conveniently, that location is his house.
7. If Voldemort has parted with the ring, he has likely parted with the others as well. This would make sense, seeing as the point of creating a Horcrux is to eliminate the risk associated with being a single target.
8. Regulus has no idea how to get rid of a Horcrux. He’s not even sure if it’s possible, but given the language the ghost book used and his own scraps of desperate optimism, he has elected to believe that it can be done or he’s really going to lose his mind this time.
9. He is, as of yet, undecided how involved in this he wants to be. The ideal amount is not at all, but it appears as if that is no longer an option. As long as Voldemort lives, there will be a war, and he has found the perfect way to drag it out indefinitely.
10. Regulus is not fond of the idea of choosing sides.
11. Regulus needs the Horcruxes.

He isn’t thrilled about that last one. He isn’t thrilled about any of them, but it’s better to know than to flounder around in the dark like everyone else.

As he loops the top of the Quidditch pitch with his eyes peeled for the Snitch he thinks through his options.

He’s aware that, like most things these days, his position as an honorary Death Eater is temporary. The easy thing to do would be to commit to it, just give in and do what he’s told like he’s done most of his life in the interest of living past 17. The unthinkable thing to do would be to seek out whatever force has amassed to oppose Voldemort. He knows it exists; it has to in order for the Dark Lord to need followers at all. Regulus may not have names or faces, but he’s heard plenty at the meetings to understand that there are people out there thwarting the Death Eaters’ plans and just generally causing them grief.

If he were to bring his knowledge of the Horcruxes to this opposite side (and he has a suspicion that key figures might not be so far away), a few things might happen. They might try to convince him to leave his home and his family like Sirius did, something Regulus has fantasized about in great detail and firmly relegated to just that: a fantasy. They might also recognize what Regulus already has, that his position within the Death Eaters could be something of an advantage if he plays it right. In that case, Regulus has no doubt he will be coerced, manipulated, threatened, or otherwise forced into the role of spy, perhaps the only thing more dangerous than being the unwilling recipient of forbidden knowledge.

But there’s no way they will simply allow him to drop off a neat parcel of game-changing horrors and send him on his way with a smile. They would want to know how he got the information, which would of course expose his legilimency, and then they’d want him to use it for them. Regulus has already had quite enough of being a weapon and a bargaining chip, thank you very much.

Whatever moral high ground the other side might think they have, Regulus is still deeply suspicious. War is just another power struggle and no matter how just the cause, the winner always stands to gain something. The people who seat themselves at the helm of those causes typically have their own reasons for being there. They are never altruistic.

So if Regulus is really so intent on maintaining some semblance of his own efficacy, that leaves him with one option.

He can collect the Horcruxes and decide what to do with them later.

This is an objectively unimpressive plan, but it meets his criteria.

With the Horcruxes in his possession, he would hold leverage over both sides of the war. This would provide him a modicum of protection against his own weaponization, and perhaps he could even end things before they get too bloody.

Don’t get him wrong, Regulus doesn’t give a shit about the whole light and dark narrative, about purification or progress or doing what’s right.

Words mean very little to him.

What he does care about is that his family have thrown their lot in with a man who is much more dangerous than they realize in the name of besting the other purebloods of Britain like it’s a game. They’ve dragged him along with them, as well as people like Narcissa and Evan and by extension Barty, people who want no part of it and would have been perfectly happy to live out their lives in the world as it currently is.

And the rise of one power requires a response from another. This one will consume an idealist like Dorcas and all the other overconfident idiots who fancy themselves heroes or “good people” like Sirius-

But no, not Sirius, because Regulus doesn’t do things for people who replace their brothers with shinier, less complicated best friends.

So not him.

But the two powers will clash and the shrapnel will of course cause its own hurt to people like Pandora who are so far away from the whole matter they won’t even see it coming before they’re dead.

There are benefits to ending a war, it seems, even to someone as selfish as Regulus.

But he’s gotten ahead of himself. All he needs to do now is find and collect the Horcruxes without Voldemort knowing what he’s up to. The last part is what leads him to add one more conclusion to the list.

12. Regulus needs to get good at transfiguration. Like, really good. Good enough for a bait-and-switch with pieces of a madman’s soul.

He has a goal now, at least something that he can wrap his head around as he descends at the end of practice. He leaves the changing room in step with Dorcas, both of their brooms in hand.

“Are you still meeting Barty and Evan later?” she asks.

“Should be. Unless they’re too busy shagging and forget all about me again.”

“You might not want to know how rarely they forget about you when they’re shagging.” Regulus squeezes his eyes shut and Dorcas laughs. “You still have an open invitation, don’t you?”

“Everyone Barty’s ever looked twice at has an open invitation. I’m not special.”

Dorcas chuckles again. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Regulus prefers Dorcas’s one-on-one company more than nearly anyone else’s. They’re not the same person under any circumstances, but they understand each other. She respects his violent need for independence. He appreciates her ability to be fair to everyone while still looking out for herself.

He thinks about her standing offer to help him wherever she can and decides to throw her a bone.

“Cas, what would you say if I told you I needed to become an expert in transfiguration as soon as possible for reasons I will not disclose?”

She gives him a sideways look but takes his non sequitur in stride. “I suppose I would tell you to come up with a good excuse and become close personal friends with McGonagall.”

“Right, and if I need there to be no questions asked?”

“Then stick with the excuse and see if she’ll refer you to someone else.”

He mulls this over. “The excuse would have to be pretty good. I’ve never struggled with transfiguration so it’s not like I can ask for tutoring.”

“Must be nice. I suppose purposely flunking a few tests isn’t an option.”

“Definitely not. Walburga would have something to say about that and I don’t really care for her opinion on the matter.”

“Well there’s your excuse right there.” Regulus looks at Dorcas and she clarifies, “Walburga. No doubt McGonagall knows she’s a right lunatic. You don’t have to ask for reasonable favors if the person making you ask for them is unreasonable.”

She has a point. If he tells McGonagall that his mother has got it in her head that he needs to be better at transfiguration than he already is, he doesn’t even have to pretend that his request makes sense. She can send him to some seventh year to start him off on NEWT-level techniques, and he’s sure he can lie and intimidate his own way from there.

“I think I’ll do that then.”

“You know I would offer to do it myself if I didn’t scrape my transfiguration OWL by the skin of my teeth. I would do that for you.”

“I appreciate your hypothetical sacrifice, Cas.”

“Anything for you, Reg.”

They make their way through the hulking entrance doors of the castle. Regulus takes a quick detour to McGonagall’s office before he meets up with Barty and Evan at their spot in the library.

*

“Nice of you to join us,” Barty says, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, it’s not like we’re trying to save your ass out of the goodness of our hearts or anything.” Evan doesn’t even look up from the text he’s flipping through. “Though it is an ass worth saving.”

Regulus’s day has been far too long. Technically it’s been two days, so forgive him if the compliments to his ass don’t soften his demeanor. He drops his broom and his bag and pulls his chair in.

“Tell me what you’ve come up with.”

“Well,” Barty starts, “After a riveting conversation with one Mr. Lupin-“

“Remus Lupin?” Regulus interjects.

“The one and only,” Evan says.

“What the hell were you accosting Remus Lupin for?” The idea doesn’t sit well with him. He’s far too close to his brother to be a safe source of information. None of them can know anything about this.

“Well if you would allow us to finish…” Barty gives Regulus a pointed look. Regulus sits back and gestures for him to continue. “Lyall Lupin, father of Remus Lupin and longtime advocate for werewolf management laws, focused a good portion of his work on the registration and control of underage werewolves starting about a decade ago. Not a lot of it made it through to law, but he’s laid a lot of the groundwork for us.”

Regulus is intrigued. As smart as Barty is, he doesn’t think he’s figured out Lupin’s secret quite yet. He has no doubt that given a week and a prompt, Barty could suss it out in no time. Regulus noticed it his third year. He had kept an eye on Sirius’s group out of habit at that point, an unfortunate combination of his distant but still lingering obsession with his brother and his friends, suspicion raised by their odd behavior when they’d begun the animagus process, and the fact that Lupin was a total smokeshow to straight girls, gay boys, and really anyone with working eyes.

After a few full moons when Lupin failed to appear at breakfast, Regulus had been sure. He didn’t tell anyone, he wasn’t that much of a dick. In fact, he’d been sort of impressed by the whole thing. It seemed Sirius’s friends had hidden depths.

He's sure there's a story behind a man who advocates for strict werewolf legislation reform while hiding a werewolf son away at home, but Regulus isn’t here for the dramatics. 

Barty goes on: “There are laws that state that werewolf children must be examined once every other month by Ministry-approved healers. Now, we’re not so interested in the healer portion of things as we are in-“

“The Ministry’s power to direct the actions and movements of a minor without the consent of their guardians.” Evan turns his book around to face Regulus and points at a statute from 1973.

“Given this precedent, the bill Barty’s father is working on could at the very least require the children of known Death Eaters to meet with a Ministry official without their parents present. Doesn’t even really matter what would happen at the meeting, it’s the fact that they’d be an in for the Ministry to start targeting the Death Eaters in the first place.”

Regulus reads through the statute. This is their project; Barty’s father had dreamed up a law that would remove the children of Death Eaters from their households lest they be “corrupted, brainwashed, injured, or fatally harmed by the actions and teachings of a known terrorist body.” From the outside, it was an emotional plea to the public to protect their children from political extremists. At its core, Barty Crouch Sr. would stop at nothing to strike at the heart of the Death Eaters, even if he had to get his hands on their children to do it.

Barty had assured Regulus and Evan that no one on the Wizengamot would go for taking children away from their families. The backlash would be horrendous, and it was a tough look to defend to the public. But the point had been made, and by reaching too far initially Crouch and his supporters intended to scale the bill back to a more reasonable proposition that would pass into law by the end of the year.

Barty, Evan, and Regulus didn’t really care what this final version looked like. No matter what it turned out to be, people like the Blacks were above the law. They would find their way around the more severe consequences through threats or bribery or whatever means they had to employ to keep their business—and their children—their own. No, what Barty had suggested and what they had been working on since summer was getting the bill passed at all.

Regulus had mentioned what he suspected to be his terminal date. He was willing to bet his inheritance that during Christmas break, Voldemort would offer him the Dark Mark.

This would be much less of an offer and much more of a sentencing.

So they had until the end of the year and the close of the Wizengamot to produce an acceptable version of Crouch Sr.’s bill to pass into law. Even if the law just required a registration of underage wizards and witches born to suspected Death Eaters, Regulus, Barty, and Evan hoped that the attention from the public and the threat of the Ministry gaining access to pureblood families and the Death Eaters via their children would be enough to scare Voldemort into postponing the Mark until Regulus reached his majority at 17 in June.

The idea boiled down to Regulus being able to look Voldemort in the eye and say, “Yes that’s a lovely tattoo, I’m mad about it, but consider that I am sixteen years old and if I walk around with that on my arm the government may just have reason to kidnap me and try to kill you. Shall we revisit this in six months?”

Regulus spends as little time as possible thinking about that looming moment. But in order to even get there, they had to have the necessary paperwork to leverage the threat.

The issues arose when Crouch and his supporters came into play. Crouch Sr. had been in a deadlock with his co-author, a stodgy old veteran of the Wizengamot named Thyrolago Glendoza. They had wasted months now arguing over minutia and semantics.

Before the semester had started, Barty had intercepted Glendoza’s owl as it brought his latest draft of the bill to Barty’s father. Barty had read both the letter and the draft and studied the owl carefully.

With Evan’s help, the next time the owl arrived Barty had an almost identical owl perched on his arm, thoroughly loyal to him and ready to take its counterpart’s place as long as Barty continued to overfeed it from his own plate. Barty had named it Doppel. 

Once the owls were switched out, Glendoza’s correspondences always came to Barty first before they reached his father. That way, Barty, Evan, and Regulus could remove Glendoza’s frankly elementary suggestions and edits and replace them with their own forged copies that pushed the bill towards a closer completion date backed by the research they had done to support the bill’s justification. As far as they could tell, Crouch Sr. was none the wiser, if not pleasantly surprised by his partner’s suddenly elevated ideas.

Regulus turns the book back to Barty. “This looks promising. We should make sure we include that line Evan said about directing the actions and movement of minors.”

“On it,” Evan replies. He’s already smoothing out a piece of parchment they had transfigured to the same ply and texture as Glendoza’s personalized stationary. Then he removes a set of calligraphy quills he uses to mimic Glendoza’s handwriting and signature.

Regulus quite enjoys watching Evan write as Glendoza. While Barty and Regulus bounce phrasing back and forth until they get the right mix of dull factoids and inflated self-importance that characterizes Glendoza’s voice on paper, Evan pens their dictated sentences into a cohesive letter that looks no different from the ones Crouch Sr. has been receiving from Glendoza since he joined the Wizengamot.

Evan is a smooth and enviable liar in all mediums, but seeing his manipulated reality take shape on the page is a bit like witnessing the artist at work.

“How shall we start this one, Reg?” Barty asks from where he’s folded his hands behind his head. “How about ‘Mr. Crouch, it has recently come to my attention that your long career cultivating the arts of snub-nosed berks and general bastardry has gone unrecognized all these years...’”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “How about ‘Dear Mr. Crouch, I have had a fortuitous excess of time in my busy schedule to spend on your proposal this week…’”

“‘This is an unacceptable slight on you character, and I intend to correct it posthaste…’”

“‘Please see enclosed the statutes I have referenced in support of your ultimate aims for this draft…’”

“‘If you would allow me the honor, I would like to bestow upon you the Order of Saggy-Titted Dandies, First Class. I can think of no recipient more deserving than yourself.’ Are you getting all of this down, Ev?”

“I’m only writing the stuff Reg is saying,” he replies with his head still bent over the parchment. His hand wields the quill in careful strokes and exuberant flourishes that translate into their inked equivalents.

Barty scoffs. “It’s like you don’t even love me anymore. Where’s the romance gone?”

“Did you or did you not just speak the phrase ‘Saggy-Titted Dandies’ where I could hear you?” Evan’s voice emerges from behind a fall of blond hair.

Barty looks at him fondly. “I’m rather proud of that one.”

Regulus closes his eyes. “Merlin, what are we going to do when there’s an actual, official law reigning over Britain authored by you two?”

“Ah-ah Reg, you’re writing it too. Don’t think you can worm your way out of this one.”

Honestly, the wizarding world should be grateful that he’s directed Barty and Evan’s attention towards a productive project. They’re properly dangerous together.

Regulus groans but can’t help the smile that spreads on his face.

The addition of this one emotion to his already overtaxed person seems to be the breaking point. He hasn’t slept in over 48 hours, and he’s barely eaten enough to stay on his feet through the day, much less weather a Quidditch practice and fend off the well-meaning concern of his friends. Regulus leans into his chair and closes his eyes, allowing Barty to take point on the rest of the letter.

His friends know what this means for Regulus and don’t disturb him. There comes a point sometimes when the sheer act of existing in the space of other people takes too much effort. The facades he wears for everyone, even the minuscule ones in the company of his most trusted friends, have turned brittle and tired at the end of a very long day. His head feels hot and airy with an undeniable headache building gradually just behind his temples. He takes one deep breath and lets it out slowly.

It would be a real help if he could beat his worries into submission for just one night, long enough to get at least a little sleep, but the prognosis is bleak. He may not be actively thinking about them but they’re still there, buzzing in the back of his head.

A few hours as the cat, cloaked in the serene, untouchable reaches of the castle’s tallest tower might be able to soothe him enough for sleep, and he thinks he’ll give it a try. Otherwise he’ll have to scrounge up a potion or submit himself to another night on a carousel of steadily multiplying problems and the usual lineup of bad memories turned dreams.

Then again, he may have to reconsider if James Potter decides to show up again, visible state of crisis or otherwise. Merlin knows that where Potter goes, peace is found in meager quantities.

Chapter Text

It’s a better day, as good as a day can be by James’s new standard. Sirius and Remus have tired themselves out after their blatant animosity, and they’ve instead fallen into a sort of subdued tolerance of each other. It’s the closest they’ve come to anything remotely resembling their former bond, and the four of them even managed to have a civil conversation at breakfast. James is practically giddy.

He's packing up his Transfiguration textbook while Sirius returns their parakeet (a bird obnoxious in both color and screech that James and Sirius agreed made a much more pleasant pair of mango-colored earrings. Alas.) when he hears his name called from the front of the classroom.

“Mr. Potter if you would remain a minute, I would like to have a word with you,” McGonagall says.

James pulls his robes on and grabs his bag. “Of course, Professor.”

Sirius gives him a questioning look as he passes, and James responds with a shrug. It’s probably Head Boy stuff he’s forgotten.

When the class is empty and quiet but for the cheerful chirping of the parakeets hopping around their cage, McGonagall faces him.

“I have found a new pursuit for you, Mr. Potter.” James has just enough time to catch up with what she’s saying in the context of their detention conversation before she continues. “A sixth-year student has requested additional Transfiguration instruction, and I would like for you to take the responsibility if you are amenable.”

She folds her hands in front of her and meets his rather baffled stare. This is not what James was expecting.

“I- Me?”

“You are still Mr. James Potter of Gryffindor house are you not?”

“Well, yes but- I mean am I really qualified for this? Shouldn’t you be asking Lily or something?”

“Mr. Potter you have maintained excellent marks in the subject since your arrival at Hogwarts. I believe you would make a capable instructor and would enjoy the opportunity while doing so. Additionally, I think you and I can both agree that Ms. Evans has, as usual, taken on quite enough this year already.”

James nods in sympathy. No one could overstretch themselves and make it look effortless quite like Lily; it came down to the rest of them to remind her to eat and sleep and see the sky sometimes. James has no idea how she does it.

“Well, alright then I guess, if you think it’s a good idea I’d love to help out.”

“Excellent. I will suggest that you meet tomorrow evening if you are free.” She looks at him over her glasses, and James nods to confirm. “You may of course make use of my classroom and any items or texts you deem appropriate.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“After dinner tomorrow then, Mr. Potter. I trust you will enjoy the chance to challenge yourself.”

James walks out the door wondering what the hell that could possibly mean.

He makes his way to the common room and steps through the portrait. To his surprise, Sirius, Remus, and Peter are all sitting by the fireplace, Sirius and Peter on the couch, Remus’s long limbs folded up to fit in the old red armchair. James approaches cautiously as if they might spook like wild animals and lash out at each other again.

Sirius looks up when he gets close enough and pushes long black hair away from where it was falling into his face over a letter. “What did Minnie want?”

James drops his bag and pulls off his robes.

“She asked if I would tutor some sixth year in Transfiguration.” He sits on the floor by Sirius’s feet and rolls up the sleeves of his button down.

The silence stretches on too long. He glances around to see all three of them looking at him.

“What?”

“You?” Sirius blurts.

James can’t decide if he should be offended by that. “Well sure, why not?”

Peter gives a half grin at this and meets Remus’s eyes over James’s head.

“No reason, mate, you’ve just not always been the model student, that’s all.”

“Hey, I’m plenty good at Transfiguration. Better than you lot anyway,” James says, folding his arms. He’s not pouting though, because that would be a very juvenile thing for a mature 17-year-old to do.

“Ok, fine,” Sirius says, “But you’ve also not really tutored anyone before.”

“That’s not true, I do Lily’s study group sometimes, Remus can confirm,” James says, pointing at Remus.

He nods. “I can confirm.”

“Sure, but it’s Lily’s study group,” Sirius adds. “Isn’t she the better choice for this sort of thing?”

“No,” both James and Remus answer at once. They make eye contact, and James can tell that Remus is thinking of that one instance when Lily scheduled two meetings and a revisory study session in the same hour and still insisted she could make it to all of them. James is thinking of the time during finals when someone had brought a vase flowers into the common room and Lily spent 20 minutes staring at them like she had never touched grass before.

Either because they don’t give any further explanation or because Sirius is equally apprehensive of this new pseudo-truce with Remus and doesn’t want to disagree with him, he backs down.

“Alright then, good for you I guess.”

“Do you know who it is? Anyone we know?” Remus asks over his book.

“No idea. It’ll be a surprise.”

Peter and Remus seem satisfied with this and sit back, but Sirius pulls out the letter he had been fiddling with when James arrived.

“We got a letter from Effie and Monty,” he says, handing it to James.

James takes it and opens the seal. It’s a bit rare that his parents send them a joint letter. Effie had begun writing Sirius his own letters at the beginning of sixth year after discussing the idea with James. Sirius had always loved James’s parents, and his affection for them when he’d visit always came off twinged with the kind of effusive enthusiasm of someone unused to the chance to love and be loved and the desperate longing of someone who wanted more than he could have. James had agreed with Effie when she had asked if Sirius might like a listening ear or even just a normal correspondence during the school year and confided in her that he was afraid Sirius’s home situation was rapidly deteriorating.

James never asked his mother what Sirius said in those letters, and she never offered to share it. But he would find Sirius some nights hunched over a letter by lamplight, scribbling line after line until a dense block of text sat drying by his bedside to be sent off the next morning.

The letters gained another dimension of importance after Sirius showed up at their door last Easter, blood-soaked and scared beyond words. Through the panicked haze of James’s memories of that night, he recalls how eerily calm his parents were—sympathetic and doting, without a doubt, but also prepared to a prescient degree, moving in response to each other like the cogs of a clock to clean Sirius up and make him comfortable.

It was only in retrospect that James could appreciate just how much thought and concern his parents devoted to Sirius when James wasn’t around; they had known this day would come and feared the alternative if it didn’t.

James, despite the years worth of time he and Sirius had spent growing up together and sharing themselves with each other by spoonfuls and heaps in turn, was still a child. He had not run the scenario to its inevitable conclusion like his parents had. Where it had come as a horrifying shock to him, seeing his best friend standing in the dark with eyes that only recognized him as another potential source of hurt, his parents had set their faces in grim determination and tried to sooth every open wound with kindness. James wonders sometimes how often his parents had stayed up late at night discussing how they would handle Sirius when he eventually came limping through their door.

James has no doubt both Effie and Monty considered Sirius their own long before he came to live with them, but he only realized it that night. Sirius had finally fallen asleep in a guest bedroom that James supposed wasn’t for guests anymore, seeing as Sirius wouldn’t be leaving again. He had to keep telling himself that: he wouldn’t be leaving, the worst was over. And as awful as the whole night had been, there was some part of James that was dancing in wild celebration over the fact that he would never again watch Sirius walk away from him at the King's Cross platform or feel slightly nauseous when they’d pack for holidays, wondering if the light in Sirius’s eyes would be dimmed when he returned. If he returned.

James had crawled under the covers with Sirius and gripped his shoulder where he lay his head in James’s lap, only half for Sirius’s sake. After Sirius’s breathing had slowed, he had extracted himself in slow motion. Then he’d dragged himself downstairs but stopped when he noticed his mother in the sitting room.

Effie was seated on the sofa facing the fireplace, back to the doorway where James studied her. There was only one lamp on to push back the oppressive night leaning against the front windows, and in its warm glow, she sat perfectly still and stared straight ahead. The only movement that James could see when he craned his neck was from her hands; she held her wand and turned it over and over and over again.

He couldn’t see her face, but somehow James knew that her expression wasn’t the anguish he’d seen on his own when he passed the mirror in the hall or the exhaustion he felt. Maybe it was her straight posture, tensed for something he couldn’t predict, that led him to believe her face was blank and contemplative like he’d never seen it before.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump. He whipped around and almost knocked heads with his father who put a finger to his lips. James stared at a face so similar to his own, same glasses and everything, then looked back at his mother, then back to Monty.

“What’s she doing?” he whispered.

Monty gazed at his wife.

“She’s thinking.”

James’s brow furrowed. “About what?”

His father’s mouth thinned into a stiff line that James wouldn’t have guessed it could make. Monty was usually such an exuberant person, thoughtful and accommodating and joyful in equal measure, and his mouth could curve to capture all those qualities with an easy elasticity. This one thin line didn’t match any version of his father James had ever encountered.

He was learning all sorts of things about his parents tonight.

“She’s thinking about going over there.”

It took James a second but then he felt his face blanch.

“What?”

Monty shushed him softly, so James whispered with as much force as he could, “She can’t go there, that’s mad! Why would she even consider that?”

His father gave him a look then that was so full of age and weighty experience that James could only hope to one day reach the level of wisdom necessary to reproduce it.

“They almost killed him, James,” he answered slowly. “They tried to kill her child.”

And it was so simple that James felt put in his place once again.

He understood, in an abstract, mysterious kind of way, the love parents felt for their children (or at least were supposed to). He loved his parents without question and didn’t only love them but liked them too. Liked to talk to them and spend time with them when he didn’t have to. But his love compared to theirs always felt light and superficial. Sometimes he would catch them looking at him as if it hurt them. He couldn’t imagine a love like that, so fundamental to you that it was almost synonymous with pain, a love that simultaneously tore down your life and reconstructed it to orbit around someone who could never experience the same thing for you.

But looking at Effie on the sofa, deadly calm and working through a thorough equation of pros and cons, deciding whether to give in to an instinctive rage to kill the people who had hurt her child, James could almost feel that love looming over him like a massive tidal wave poised to block out the sun.

He swallowed. “Won’t you stop her?”

Monty shook his head. “No.”

“But what if she decides to go?”

“Then I’ll go with her.”

In the dim light from the one lamp in the other room, James could see that his father was resolute. From the look on his face, James was sure that Monty, a man who would capture and release spiders into the garden rather than kill them, was capable of great destruction should he choose it.

“Go to bed, James. You’ll want to be there when Sirius wakes up.”

James nodded weakly, and his father squeezed his shoulder.

As James made his way back upstairs, Monty took silent steps into the sitting room. James paused halfway up the staircase and crouched down to peer through the banister and under the top of the doorway like he was a little kid again. Monty walked around the sofa and crossed in front of his wife before sitting down next to her. Neither of them said anything.

James went to bed as Effie thought and Monty waited for her to make a decision and give him the word.

As far as James knows, Effie and Monty didn’t leave, and the Blacks are still alive, for better or worse, so James assumes that Effie decided to lay down her wand. James has never told Sirius about that, afraid he would mistake the distant promise of violence James had sensed that night for something that could be turned on him. James knows better, so he doesn’t bother Sirius with it.

There is only one other part of that whole multi-day nightmare that James has kept from Sirius. It’s the moment his father pulled him aside while Sirius moved slowly around the kitchen two evenings later helping Effie cook dinner. In almost the exact same spot where they had exchanged whispered words that had reshaped the way James understood his parents as people, his father lowered his voice and asked one quiet, startling question: “What about his brother?”

James had felt his heart stop and start again. It sounds awful to him now, but the truth is he had forgotten about Regulus. Between the agony of receiving Sirius wounded and trembling and the overwhelming relief of having him tucked safely under his own roof, James had been properly preoccupied. Those thoughts were sorted and stored to be reexamined at a time when they wouldn’t make him start crying again, and James had been stubbornly putting on a happy face for Sirius ever since.

Sirius had never spoken much of Regulus beyond the occasional complaint or dismissal, and James had never really interacted with him past the Quidditch pitch. Sure, he had seen him around school, but he always struck such an austere figure, cutting through crowds like a knife and through people with his eyes. Nothing about him suggested he might struggle with his home situation the way Sirius had. Or that he ever struggled with anything at all really. Honestly, it was a bit intimidating to be confronted with as much competence as Regulus Black exuded, even from a distance.

James must have taken all that at face value and assumed that Regulus had no trouble navigating the family that had nearly sucked the life out of his best friend.

At his father’s question though, James had to rethink it. Could he really be so sure that someone was fine just because they looked it? Did Sirius seem fine to other people who didn’t know him so well? Just the thought of another child, an even younger one at that, in a house with people who had made Sirius look like he did not two days ago was causing James a good deal of distress.

So he said, “I don’t know,” and Monty had nodded gravely.

James isn’t sure what Monty ever did with that lack of information, but he had certainly piqued James’s interest. He found himself sneaking the occasional glance at Regulus in the hallway or before Quidditch practice when the Slytherins still had the pitch to see if he could parse any sign of his life at home or just in general.

There was genuinely nothing.

James had only asked Sirius about Regulus once since then, over the summer when Effie and Monty were visiting friends in Wales. Sirius had been so despondent that whole week that when evening rolled around and they were home alone, James had made the executive decision to liberate a bottle of firewhiskey from the top shelf in a desperate effort to shove Sirius’s mind literally anywhere but thoughts of his family and Moony and his own self-pity.

It had worked beautifully in the beginning. They had stumbled around and attempted in vain to cook rice while arguing over whether the water or the rice went in the pot first. Then Sirius shifted into Padfoot and James had almost cried laughing when a sloshed dog tried to cover him in kisses but kept missing him completely and licking air instead. When Sirius had finally shifted back and they’d worked through most of the drunken energy, they lay on their backs side by side in the yard and gazed up at the stars.

That must have been what reminded James, and if he wasn’t still drunk he wouldn’t have asked, “Sirius… is Regulus okay?”

He knew at once it was a mistake, had just undone the past few hours of good humor. The contented look on Sirius’s face faded until he was staring at the sky with a stiffness around his mouth that did nothing to disguise the grief in his eyes.

“He wouldn’t leave,” he whispered.

The real confusion in Sirius’s voice almost broke James’s heart. He hadn’t known Sirius as a little kid, but he imagined this is what he might have sounded like back then, young and uncomprehending and just so deeply sad in such a simple way.

Then Sirius said, “I think he loves them more.” He looked at James. “Do you think?”

And for the second time in his life that he had been asked about Regulus Black, James was forced to say, “I don’t know.”

They’d gone to bed soon after, and they didn’t talk about it again.

James had woken with the faint thought that he really ought to know more about Regulus if people were going to keep asking such tricky questions.

But their parents had returned, and the summer had progressed, and Sirius had plateaued into a more manageable state of guilt, and Regulus had fallen by the wayside again.

James was sure that Effie had corresponded more with Sirius in these first few weeks of their seventh year than she had before in an effort to guide Sirius through his troubles with Remus. This was another area where James was unsure as to the extent of Effie’s knowledge; she of course knew all about the Prank, but whether Sirius had ever mentioned his realization of his crushing, soul-consuming infatuation with Remus was up in the air. James’s philosophy is that it's generally safe to assume that Effie knows everything always.

Now, with the letter in his hands and Sirius reading over his shoulder, James is more sure than ever that both his parents have sources of information James could only dream of accessing.

It’s a pretty standard letter, for the most part. They talk about the weather and the local picture show and update Sirius and James on Monty’s latest potion obsession. But there’s an odd bit in the middle, vaguely worded in a way that feels intentional.

Effie had written, “Things are certainly busy around the house. I feel like I’m always cleaning the fireplace with the number of people we have flooing in and out all the time. Monty and I have offered to play host to a group of friends when they need to meet and are lending a hand when it’s called for. There are lots of fascinating people here, and I’m sure you boys would love to meet them but, truthfully, I’m glad you haven’t.”

James and Sirius give each other a look.

“What d’you reckon that’s about?” James asks.

Sirius gives the question real thought. “You think it’s the war?”

The idea is as chilling as it is exciting. James had always felt close to the war, what with Frank and Alice graduating and immediately stepping into Auror training. And James and Sirius had had their suspicions that their parents were a bit closer to the action than they’d let on.

“What’s that?” Remus asks, marking his place in his book with one finger.

Sirius swallows and defers to James, but James just gives him a pointed look back. With palpable nerves, Sirius takes the letter from James and hands it to Remus, an olive branch.

“See what you make of that part near the end.”

Remus reads it and his eyebrows raise. “Certainly sounds like it.”

They pass the letter to Peter, and he nods while he reads. “You think they’re a part of the Movement?”

There’s a general recognition of a sort of amorphous reaction to the rise of the Death Eaters, though none of them have a name for it. For now, it’s just the Movement.

“It wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Sirius says. “Effie and Monty have connections and real sway in some circles. No doubt they’d be a catch.”

Sirius sounds exhilarated by the idea, and James agrees with his assessment, but he’s also a bit more cautious about it. He’s not sure he likes the idea of his parents involved in the war. They’re not exactly young, and James thinks it would be better if they left the dirty work to people like himself and Sirius who have talked at length about their post-graduation plans to jump into the fight. But hosting doesn’t sound too bad, and James figures it will be all the easier to join the Movement when the time comes with his parents there to vouch for them.

He meets Remus’s stare when he notices it. While Sirius and James have been able to read each other like books and finish each other’s sentences for going on seven years now, Remus has always been able to drill holes into James’s brain and pick out those thoughts he had meant to keep secret. If he had to bet, James would guarantee that Remus could list James’s concerns about his parents right this second.

But instead, Remus shuts his book and stands. He stretches his arms over his head, and Sirius tries to stare anywhere else with little luck. Then Remus twists his neck one way and the other and sighs. The full moon is at the end of the week. With his luck, the aches have probably already started to set in.

“Makes little difference right now,” he says and meets James’s eyes again. “Am I going to have to drag you lot to dinner or will you be compliant for once?”

James thanks Merlin every day for Remus Lupin, and on the days he forgets to, he gives thanks twice the day after.

Sirius, seemingly emboldened by Remus’s recent tolerance of him, jumps up from the sofa, dragging a stumbling Peter with him.

“If you wanted us compliant, Moony, all you had to do was give the order.”

Remus snorts in amusement as he makes his way towards the portrait hole. Sirius lights up like he’s seen a unicorn and trots after him. Peter and James watch the whole thing play out and follow behind them by a few paces.

“They’re going to kill me, James,” Peter says miserably.

“I know, Wormtail.”

“Like they’re actively aging me as we speak.”

“I know, Wormtail.”

*

After dinner they convene around a table in the common room to sort through homework. 30 minutes in, James nudges Peter’s foot under the table and Peter makes up some excuse to occupy himself elsewhere. Remus and Sirius are so engrossed in an Arithmancy problem that they barely raise one hand between them to wave him off. James follows shortly after with a cautious hope that they’ll make use of their time alone together to continue solidifying what is shaping up to look a lot like a ceasefire.

He knows he promised McGonagall that he would quit trying to fix everything himself, but this probably doesn’t count since he’s not actually doing anything. James loves a good loophole.

Still, he’ll make it up by taking the time for himself because he would feel bad about it otherwise.

He hasn’t put too much effort into alone time since that first disastrous attempt, but he has thought about that cat more than once. The one time he bothered to check the Astronomy Tower a few days ago, it hadn’t been there.

Tonight the setting of the sun has brought with it a strange cool wind off the lake, one that gusts through the arches at intervals and has James glad he thought to wear his Gryffindor sweater.

He stops just outside the same arch and waits a moment. For some reason, his specific brand of logic has advised him that if he looks for the cat immediately, it won’t be there, like it might sense his enthusiasm and decide it wants no part of it. Instead he walks to the railing and leans forward onto his elbows.

He’ll play it cool. James can totally be casual.

Casual James lasts about eight seconds while looking as hard as he can out of the corner of his eye to see if he can find the cat before his curiosity gets the best of him. He turns back to the tower and freezes on the spot.

It’s right there, sitting in the exact same place it was last week like an onyx statue come to life. The cat is staring at him again too, and James gets the feeling it knows exactly what game he was playing. He’s trying hard to hang on to Casual James, but a smile tugs up the corners of his mouth.

“Hello again,” he says. “I was hoping I hadn’t scared you off.”

The cat doesn’t seem the type to scare easily, but James is getting in deep with the mind games. He’s thought about this more than he’ll admit. If he can be equal parts accommodating and provoking, he thinks he can keep the cat just pissed off enough to stick around for more than a few minutes.

“Is that your spot then?” he says gesturing to the ledge.

The cat’s head tilts to one side like it’s waiting for him to ask a non-stupid question.

“Great view you’ve got, definitely,” he says, nodding approvingly. “Although you can see quite a bit from down here too. Would you like to try?” James takes a step back to make room for the cat.

The cat drops its chin in a You expect me to fall for that? motion.

James rubs the back of his hair. “No, you’re right. That’s quite a distance to jump if you’re not sure you can make it.”

The cat’s eyes narrow at him and James does his best to project innocence while a chorus of takethebait,takethebait,takethebait runs laps in his head. They stare at each other for a long moment, and he’s a second away from breaking when the cat gets to its feet.

James locks down a squeal; he has it on good authority it’s never a good idea to let cats know when they’ve given you what you want.

Before James can move to give the cat more room to land on the terrace, it leaps to a lower ledge then sails across the gap between the wall and the railing in one smooth motion, landing gracefully on one of the stone pillars set between lengths of rail. It wraps its tail neatly around its front paws and looks to James as if to say Happy?

James, who had not quite expected the cat to jump over two meters on a whim, takes a moment to summon his power of speech again.

“Wow. Okay then. Prove me wrong, why don’t you.”

The cat is giving him a considering look so he says, “I suppose that’s an even better pos-oooh Merlin, what are you doing, don’t do that!”

Instead of staying put like a good cat, it has made the confounding decision to step lightly onto the much thinner, much more precarious iron railing.

The cat walks the rail like a tight rope, its eyes on James the whole time.

James, for his part, is freaking out. He’s not sure even he, standing right there, could reach the cat in time if it were to fall. Mary had once told him the muggle superstition about cats having nine lives, but he thinks that even if they do, nine lives might not be enough to survive a fall like this.

He’s fretting about, just barely stopping himself from reaching out and snatching the cat away from the edge because he’s too worried he’ll startle it into slipping.

“Why don’t you just- maybe you could try to turn around- no never mind, bad idea, don’t do that either, um, perhaps just try to make it to the next column then?” James offers helplessly.

The cat seems to think about this, then lays down right in the middle of the fucking rail.

James grips his hair and reminds himself to breathe.

“Excellent, great, that is so very not what I said to do.”

The cat swings its tail a bit in response, a taunt that feels to James like Oh, is this not what you wanted?

He really needs this to end, for his own health.

“Okay you’ve made your point. You’re very capable, quite good at being a cat, can you please get off the rail now?” he begs.

Thankfully the cat takes pity on him and rises to its feet. As it begins to make its way to the next column, James can’t help saying, “Just please don’t fall.”

Only a few steps away from safety, the cat’s back right paw slips off the rail. James lets out a rather undignified sound and jerks forward before he notices the cat’s eyes on him again.

If cats could smirk, that would be exactly what is happening right now.

It neatly replaces its paw on the rail and runs the last few steps to the pillar, completely unbothered. It settles itself on the pillar with amusement in those silver eyes.

James concludes that this cat is, in fact, the worst.

“That,” he says, pointing at the rail, “was uncalled for.”

The cat tilts its head like Whatever could you possibly be referring to?

“Just plain mean, actually. I’m far too young and handsome to develop a heart condition.”

This new look projects a rather patronizing disbelief.

“You know, I think it’s best if we forego the railing altogether,” James says, reaching out to remove the cat from the pillar and its close relationship with certain death.

The cat hisses, baring sharp teeth, and swats at him with a paw now revealing five even sharper claws, and it’s only years upon years of finely tuned Quidditch reflexes that save his hand from obtaining a set of bloody gashes.

James stumbles back with his hands up in surrender. “Alright! No touching, understood.”

The cat gives him another glare for good measure then turns its gaze out over the grounds.

James takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, one wary eye on the cat. This whole interaction has his heart racing like he’s taken a particularly daring dive on his broom. But he’s not giving in yet. James approaches the rail again with extreme care and leans against it a healthy distance from the cat. He can tell it knows he’s there, but it ignores him in favor of scanning the horizon and the last of its rather magnificent evening colors.

James studies the cat unabashedly. It really is an impressive creature. He can’t spot one single discontinuity in its sleek coat and he’s hit once again with the urge to brush his fingers through it, though he now knows the rather painful consequences that await him if he makes that mistake. It also seems to be constructed of sharper lines than your average cat, somehow harsher and more precise in a way that prevents James from thinking of it as cute and instead calls to mind words like dangerous and striking. This cat reminds him less of the day-to-day domestic variety and more of its predatory ancestors, all lean muscle and hunter instincts. Its eyes are certainly no less enrapturing seen up close in the light: it’s not so much the unusual silver color (though that alone is enough to arrest attention) as it is the undeniable awareness in them. James is sure this cat has been able to read him like a book from the start.

He has never seen a cat quite like it, and that only makes him more curious.

“So,” he starts, scuffing his foot against the terrace. A twitch of the cat’s ear is the only indication that it’s listening, but that’s more than enough for him to continue. “What exactly is it that cats do at the Astronomy Tower?”

For a moment it does nothing, and James is starting to think he’s been relegated to the position of ‘annoying but ultimately ignorable decoration.’ But then it lifts its head deliberately to look at the sky above. James follows the direction of its stare where a smattering stars have resolved into view.

“Ah,” James realizes. “Stargazing. Of course.”

The cat does not acknowledge this, simply keeps its eyes cast up.

What interest stargazing might hold for a cat, James can’t even begin to speculate. But he’s starting to understand that trying to predict this cat is both pointless and much less exciting. So, he figures, if the cat can fuck with him, scaring years off his life with that stunt on the railing, then he is more than entitled to return the favor.

“Well, that’s quite lucky for you then,” James says, “because you happen to have an expert astronomer with you.”

The cat’s ear twitches again but James barrels on. “You must be looking for constellations. Perhaps you’ve noticed that odd little collection of stars just there.” James points to a random cluster. “That would be the Rat. Slippery thing, likes to slide in and out of view all year round. It might not even be here tomorrow night, who knows.

 “Then that one,”—here James gestures vaguely to a different section of the sky — “That has to be the Wolf. You can tell because of its proximity to the Dog, Canis Major.” James points to Sirius’s star and the only constellation he actually knows. “Though that one’s quite obvious. I suspect even cats such as yourself know that one. Those two are rather inseparable, never see one without the other.”

James isn’t even sure what he’s talking about at this point, but he’s having far too much fun to stop.

“Then right above us, all these stars, are the Stag. See the bright ones up there, those are the antlers. And, yes, right over there are the legs and whatnot. It’s actually the biggest constellation in the night sky and quite auspicious. Brings good luck and everything-”

James cuts off when he notices the cat staring at him. It’s not hard to imagine this look saying something along the lines of Have you ever been told you’re a goddamn idiot, or is everyone else in the world also too fucking dense to do you that favor?

He drops his hand. “Well I don’t hear you offering any suggestions.”

The cat might roll its eyes at that.

“Unless you have something to contribute I’m going to go ahead and accept your gratitude for my wisdom.”

There’s a faint cat-like sigh as it gets to its feet. Then, before James has time to process what’s happening, it bounds off the pillar, using his shoulder as a springboard to leap the remaining distance to its ledge. James spins to face it, still feeling the sensation of its tail whipping by his ear.

He swallows and says, “I’ll see you another night then?”

The cat continues to walk away from him but turns its head, not enough to count as an answer but maybe enough to acknowledge that it heard him. Then it’s gone.

James finds himself in a very similar position to the one he was in at the end of his last meeting with the cat, alone on the tower balcony with the night closing in to meet him.

This time, though, he can’t convince his face there’s no reason to smile.

*

James is standing in the Transfiguration classroom nose to nose with one particularly bold parakeet. It might even be the one he and Sirius turned into earrings the day before. It certainly looks at him like they’ve got a nasty history.

It’s evening again, just after dinner, and James had separated from the rest of the Marauders with mild jeers and good luck wishes to assume his role as Transfiguration tutor. But the classroom had been empty when he’d arrived so James had meandered a lap until he came to the cage of parakeets from their lesson the other day. Most of the birds had calmed a bit without any determined seventh years trying to transform them into jewelry, but this one looks like it might be planning James’s murder.

He figures he’ll give the student another ten minutes before he calls it a night and vacates the classroom. He doesn’t want this bird getting any ambitious ideas.

Five minutes and two futile attempts to scare the parakeet later, the door opens and closes and James hears a set of footsteps stop. He straightens up quickly and steps out from behind the cage, running a hand through hair that has already managed to turn wild again despite his attempts for a good first impression.

Though when he sees who’s standing in the doorway, he’s not sure any impression will save him, first, best, or otherwise.

Because he’s been frozen in place by the grey-eyed stare of Regulus Black himself.

Regulus, for his part, doesn’t look as surprised as James is sure he does but instead has a sort of distasteful appraisal on his face. The expression fits his features well, sharper and finer than Sirius’s as they are, but James also can’t help but notice the severe discoloration beneath his eyes and the slight hollowness below elegant cheekbones. The few months James spent sneaking glances of Regulus to try and uncover some sign of distress have instilled the habit, and his obvious fatigue jumps out at James like a red pennant. Still, Regulus holds his head high and looks James up and down without disguising the act or his discontent with having encountered him here. James watches as Regulus rests one hand on his bag hanging over his shoulder and clutches the strap with the other. Long fingers tighten on the leather, and James counts two intricate silver rings that he thinks, for some reason, he’d really like to study up close.

Once it seems he’s done with his assessment of James and found him wanting, Regulus tilts his head and says in a sort of smoky voice that still manages to be condescending, “Are you lost?”

It takes James a few seconds too long to pull himself back to the present moment.

“Am I lost?”

Regulus just raises one black eyebrow.

“No, I’m not lost. I’m here for Transfiguration tutoring.”

Regulus’s brows lower this time as he parses through what James said. Then his eyes go wide.

“No.”

“No?”

Regulus shakes his head and turns back towards the door.

“Absolutely not.” He reaches for the door handle.

“Hey, wait just-”

James takes a few quick strides to his side and grabs his wrist. Regulus whips around to face him with blazing eyes and yanks his hand away. James lets it go, a bit bewildered by the sudden punch of Regulus’s irate attention focused on him solely.

He rallies himself. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Why?”

“Because this is absurd.”

“What’s so absurd about needing help with Transfiguration?”

This seems to shift Regulus’s anger into a sharper, colder iteration. His hand goes back to gripping the strap of his bag and he takes one measured step towards James. James finds himself backing away without deciding to.

“Allow me to correct a few dire misconceptions you seem to be harboring, Potter,” he says in a low, dangerous voice. “I must not have communicated clearly enough with Professor McGonagall because first, I am not here for tutoring and I do not need help. I have not spent every semester at this godforsaken school maintaining perfect marks for you to slander me by suggesting such a thing.”

“You know there really isn’t any shame in-”

“Second, I had expressed an interest in pursuing advanced instruction in Transfiguration beyond what the sixth-year curriculum provides, and I had thought that McGonagall would assist me in working with someone who excelled in the craft, but she must have misheard me if she’s sent you.”

He takes another step forward and the back of James’s thighs bump into a desk. The top of Regulus’s shiny black curls only come up to James’s eyes, but he still feels very small right now.

“Third, I simply do not have the time or the capacity to deal with whatever idiocy you have planned here tonight. So I am leaving, Potter, and if you have any sense of self-preservation, you will allow me to do so without interruption.”

With that, he turns away and starts stalking back towards the door.

Right then James experiences one frantic moment of very badly wanting Regulus to not leave. He isn’t sure where it comes from, but after months of watching from afar and mulling over the idea of him in the back of his mind, having him so close and actually speaking words to him (pointed, scathing words) lands with James like a golden broom has fallen out of the sky right into his hands and he can’t let it go now because why the hell would he do that?

“Regulus,” he blurts, and Regulus pauses just for a moment with his hand on the door.

James knows he has one shot to come up something that will convince Regulus to give him a chance, so he says, “Would you like a new ring?”

Regulus turns his head towards him with an expression that is half incredulous, half exhausted.

“Pardon?”

James’s runaway mouth has already said the words so he might as well go with it.

“Pick anything in this room and I’ll transfigure it. Into a ring. It’ll even fit you, I swear.”

Regulus turns fully around now, crosses his arms, and leans back against the door. Progress.

“And why would I do that?”

“So that I can prove to you I’m good enough for advanced instruction.”

An eyebrow raise again.

“Listen, I get why you’re upset. McGonagall should have told you who was available to work with you and you should have been able to pick someone yourself. Someone you’re comfortable with and who you trust.”

Regulus is looking at him with real suspicion now, like he thinks James is trying to woo him by easing his concerns. Honestly, these Blacks and their paranoia.

James barrels on, “And I know that’s not me but you said yourself that you don’t have time to waste looking for someone else, and I’m plenty good enough at Transfiguration to help you figure out whatever it is you’re doing this for and if you give me a chance to prove it then you won’t have to.”

That’s his pitch and he’s sticking with it. It’s the best he’s got. James holds his breath as Regulus stares into him with those unnerving, stormy eyes.

Then he says, “Anything in the room?”

James suppresses the thrill of excitement.

“Anything.”

Regulus pushes off the door and takes slow steps towards him without breaking eye contact. He gets closer and just when James thinks something is about to happen because what the fuck is going on, Regulus steps neatly around him and lets his eyes sweep the contents of the shelves. James lets out a breath and turns to watch him.

He knows he’ll pick something hard, either large enough that shrinking it to a ring size will cause it to rebel against the constraint or something complicated enough to leave residual notes of itself on the final product. James eyes the parakeet cage with dread.

But Regulus knows his stuff, it seems.

He passes by the parakeets and strokes one finger down the leaf of some creeping ivy McGonagall keeps on the windowsill.

“This,” he says, and James groans internally.

Not only is it a complex living organism, but the ivy’s sprawl and its cohesion with the soil and its roots and the pot are going to make it a real bitch to wrangle into a simple ring of a single material.

But he’s already dug his grave, with fervor he might add, so it’s time to hunker down and lie in it.

James comes to stand next to Regulus and studies the ivy for a moment. Then he takes a deep breath, pulls out his wand, and allows himself to sink into that place where he walks side by side with magic, where in tandem they can easily reimagine a plant into an alternate life.

He takes one last look at Regulus’s long fingers where they’re woven together to rest in front of him and casts the spell.

The plant and the pot seem to collapse in on themselves, folding and compressing until in their place sits a single wreath of copper-colored metal.

James picks it up and brings it closer to the lamp where the light gleams orange on its surface.

The ring is made up of twisting strands with small leaves of metal and curls of ivy hidden between. It looks like the kind of rendering of vines one might find sculpted into an ornate iron fence, except shrunken down with all its precision to a size that makes it delicate and organic and impossible.

James is quite pleased with the result as he turns and presents it to Regulus.

Regulus reaches out and takes it carefully. James watches, rapt as he turns it this way and that and tests the texture against the pad of his thumb. Then he closes his fist around it and squeezes for a moment. When he unfurls his hand, he places the back of one finger against the metal. James realizes that he’s checking the thermal conductivity to see if it heats like metal too or if it just looks like it. James thinks he’s about to start sweating under the scrutiny.

Then Regulus slips the ring onto one nimble finger, and James’s heart needs to get with the program because it skips a beat for no reason at all.

Regulus holds his pale hand in front of him and twists the ring around where it clashes with his silver jewelry and draws attention to itself. He hums thoughtfully and pulls the ring off before dropping it into the pocket of his robes.

James only feels slightly disappointed by that.

To his credit, Regulus is not too proud to look him in the eye and admit, “I’m impressed.”

And of all the many compliments James has received in his life, he’s not sure why this one makes him want to throw a parade for himself, the muggle kind where they go all out and there’s a brass band and everything.

Casual James, he recalls at the last second. Casual James.

“Right,” he says as he runs a hand through his hair again. Regulus is still looking at him and something about the night just beyond the windows and the low light of the classroom makes him look forbidding and untouchable, some cross between a dagger and an oil painting, both defined by their craftsmanship and a requisite expertise needed to handle them.

James is remembering why he never got up the nerve to speak to Regulus in those months before the summer holiday after Sirius ran away.

He clears his throat and asks, “What is it that you wanted to work on then?”

Regulus seems to think for a moment, and his hand dips back into the pocket with the ring and stays there. Then he meets James’s eyes.

“If this is going to work, there will be rules.”

James has to tread carefully.

“Alright…”

“I will tell you what I want to practice, and you won’t ask any questions.”

“Why-”

“That’s a question.”

“But-”

“You’re already bad at this.”

“Fine!” James blurts. “No questions.”

“Good.” He gives a brief smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s gone as soon as it appeared. “And you can’t tell anyone about this.”

James is so close to asking Why? again but he clamps his mouth shut and scrunches up his face.

Regulus takes pity on him and continues, “Have you thought about how you might explain this to my brother?”

James’s eyes pop open.

“No?” Regulus says. “I didn’t think so. I imagine he’d have quite a lot of opinions on the matter and I’ve only just recently not had to deal with them, so.”

This no questions thing might be what kills James in the end, but Regulus wrings another promise from him.

“Lastly…” Regulus shifts his weight on his feet. “You need to come up with what you want in return.”

James was not expecting this.

“What do you mean? I don’t need anything in return.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option, Potter. I’m not fond of leaving debts on the table, so think of something within reason and I’ll do it for you.”

“It’s not a debt though, you don’t owe me anything-”

Regulus drops his bag from his shoulder and steps in close.

“Do not think you can tell me anything about debts,” he says, his voice low again. “We either keep the record clear or we don’t do this at all.”

There’s more to that than James can discern from Regulus’s face. He’s tense and deadly serious but he’s still better than nearly anyone else at keeping the important things thoroughly hidden.

“I’ll think about it.”

Regulus steps away and picks up his bag where it landed on the floor.

“Have something by the next time we meet.”

He begins to walk back to the door.

Before he can leave, though, James says, “I want to amend the question rule.”

He can see Regulus’s shoulders rise and fall in a great sigh. For a moment, his head hangs a bit and his hand slips on the door handle and James wonders just how truly exhausted he is. But he turns slightly, enough that James takes it as a cue to continue.

“I can ask questions.”

When Regulus looks like he’s about to shut it down, James clarifies, “I’ll have to ask some just to know what we’re working on. We won’t get anywhere if I can’t even communicate with you. But you can reserve the right to not answer any of them and I won’t push it. I promise.”

Regulus looks at him with tired eyes. “Fine.”

James leans against the closest desk and nods. “Good. When should we meet next?”

“Friday?”

James shakes his head. “Sorry, Friday’s no good.” It’s a full moon that night, the first of the school year, and James is already anxious about what’s going to happen when they’re all in animal form. Regulus just nods like he already understands.

“What about Saturday then?” James suggests. “Wait no, that’s the first Quidditch game that afternoon. You’ll be playing Ravenclaw.”

“Saturday’s fine. As long as it’s after the game.”

“But won’t you be tired?”

Regulus smirks at him and opens the door.

“After Ravenclaw? Hardly.”

Then he walks out and shuts the door behind him.

James is paralyzed for a moment or two after he leaves. Then he slumps down onto the desk fully and scrubs his hands under his glasses.

The image of Regulus smirking at him, cocky and confident and completely justified in it, chases James back to the common room.

Chapter Text

Despite what portions of the Hogwarts faculty, certain cats, and sometimes his own friends might think, James is not stupid.

In fact, he’s quite smart. He maintains top marks with what he considers a reasonable amount of effort, has always caught on to his studies quickly, and even lends a hand tutoring when Lily decides it’s time for him to put in his minutes as a role model for the younger years. Sure, he’s not the pure intellectual force that is Lily or Remus but here's the thing: James has his own ideas on how magic works. It’s purely for his own benefit, a way of making sense of what has turned out to be a rather enormous abstract force in his life, but it’s held up pretty well, all things considered.

See, James thinks that just like anything else, there are different ways to interact with magic. Different ways to be good at it. Or magically intelligent, if you would. And once he started looking, it’s like he couldn’t not notice it.

Take Remus, for example. The man understands magical theory like it’s nobody’s business. The rest of them can wrap their little brains around it long enough to scrape through another OWL, but Remus just gets it. James swears he has an index of the laws and principles of magic hidden away somewhere because he can manipulate them like they were his ideas in the first place. Many a night has found the Marauders collected in their dorm with Remus sitting in the window orating on the applications of spellwork to potion brewing processes while the trail of his cigarette maps transient echoes of his gestures. Sirius inevitably ends up on his bed with a furrowed brow and a gaping fish mouth, trying in vain to follow Remus’s train of logic while James and Peter nod and hum thoughtfully at appropriate times.

Mary’s brand of magical intelligence, James will freely admit, makes him a bit jealous sometimes. She picks pieces of it out of the air like it’s dandelion fluff floating around her, effortless and efficient. A flick of her wand has her hair smoothing or her tea warming, like magic constantly dances at her fingertips and weaves into her life seamlessly. It’s hard to imagine a Mary without her constant buoyant cloud of energy accompanying her everywhere she goes.

Sirius is a breed of his own. Almost as quick to pick up on new things as James, Sirius’s magic has an extra kick to it. He casts the strongest stupefy in their year, maybe in the whole school, and his amortentia had the entire class entranced once he got it right. There’s a sort of crackling electricity that pushes against Sirius’s skin and leaps to his summons with alacrity. James knows that potent magic is a sort of foregone conclusion in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, their bloodline prized for its fastidious (see: incestuous) cultivation, but he also thinks that Sirius’s power comes from his passion, his spirit more than any adherence to bullshit ideas of pure ancestry.

Peter seems to have a knack for the more obscure portions of magic, communing with plants that would sooner eat the rest of them. Lily has a way of explaining concepts that makes them just as simple for you as they are for her. And James doesn’t know Dorcas Meadowes very well, but he’s heard she’s a mean dueler, and that alone makes him want her as his friend.

Everyone in James’s life has their finger on a magical pulse, running up and down its current and letting it fill and complete them. And for a long time this bothered him. He didn’t begrudge them their magic, not at all. He just didn’t know where he was meant to fit in all of this. He didn’t seem to have any particularly unique strengths, unless you counted Quidditch (and he didn’t).

But it was when he was sitting on his broom one practice last autumn, overseeing his team flawlessly execute a play he had orchestrated, that an idea sprouted in the back of his mind.

He may not be able to revolutionize the fundamentals of magic like he was sure Remus would one day, and he wasn’t the veritable powerhouse that Sirius was, but James had a certain way of coexisting with magic in all its various forms. He had barely moved the first time his father stood him in front of a broom before it shot into his hand. His wand motions didn’t have to be quite as precise as other people’s. He was easily the first among them to master silent spellcasting. And he hadn’t met a magical creature that didn’t immediately take to him, at least among the species that tolerated wizards at all.

James considers his magical intelligence to be more mutual, a two-sided magical awareness like he and magic share the same blood and recognize each other by it (and maybe they do, who knows? Not James). James can breeze into new forms of magic and feel at home, like a fish jumping on land and growing legs then sprouting wings to take to the sky. His whole existence feels like he walks in step with the forces around him, and he’s the only one with an eye to it all; he knows magic when he sees it, and he sees it in everything.

All this to say, James knows the cat is not a normal cat. He can just look at it and tell. Aside from its lithe form and unnaturally dark coloring, there’s an intelligence in its eyes that can’t be mistaken. But it’s not just that. The cat clearly understands him when he talks to it. And it has a sense of humor, a wicked one, admittedly, at James’s expense, but very much present.

So James is 99.9% certain that the cat is not an ordinary cat.

But he isn’t completely, irrevocably sure until the cat tries to clobber him with a book.

It’s Thursday evening, and the hint of autumn in the air is only a fraction of what contributes to James’s good mood. He fucking loves autumn.

Sirius and Remus have been getting along more and more often, exchanging civil sentences and even the occasional joke with each other over meals or in the common room. It’s not how James expected their feud to end—he would have put his money on an explosive fight followed by intense snogging—but he’ll take whatever he can get at this point. The whole thing has him cautiously optimistic for the full moon tomorrow.

He’s also looking forward to the Quidditch match on Saturday and, for some reason, his Transfiguration practice with Regulus afterward. It’s quite clear the Regulus doesn’t exactly like him, but James has decided not to take it personally because Regulus doesn’t seem to like a lot of people. There will be plenty of time to befriend him during their sessions together. James likes the idea that he now has reason to see Regulus, likes the idea that Regulus isn’t just some free floating variable out of his reach anymore.

He remembers that smirk and his hands examining the ring and wants to know what else he can find out about Regulus Black.

When he’d returned from their first meeting and the Marauders asked how it went, he’d told them it was fine, pretty standard Transfiguration stuff. He’d also told them it was some Hufflepuff they didn’t know. Remus had looked at him for a long time after that but they had all accepted it eventually. James didn’t feel great about it, but he'd also made a promise to Regulus.

He’s still riding the high from the latest Quidditch practice and didn’t even bother to change out of his sweaty clothes before taking the stairs to the Astronomy Tower two at a time.

The team has never looked better in James’s humble opinion; he can safely say that his refuge brainstorming strategies and daring plays in a desperate haze over the summer months has paid off. The Gryffindor chasers are nearly seamless this year, and they were lucky enough to scoop up a set of cousins during tryouts who seem to not only be able to read each other’s minds but who also share the same kind of borderline mania necessary to make a good Beater, not to mention a good pair.

James’s only real concerns orbit around their Seeker, as they have since Regulus took up the mantle for Slytherin three years ago. If cornered and plied with alcohol and maybe put under Veritaserum, James will concede that there’s really not much point in trying to shape a better Seeker than Regulus Black. (He might be much more willing to admit this when he watches him in action, but it’s hard to bear witness to Regulus dodging players and Bludgers and rogue Quaffles then diving a vertical angle with the agility and speed of a falcon and not allow just a little awe to show through). But he figures that Maisie is plenty good enough to outplay the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Seekers, and the Chasers will just have to carry a bit more of the weight in the Slytherin match.

With these thoughts in mind, James practically skips across the tower landing to what he now thinks of as their arch, just his and the cat’s. But as he nears, he notices that the railing remains as empty as always. He’s not exactly sure why he assumed the cat would just be there, but he realizes at that moment that he certainly did have an image in his head of it sitting impatiently on one of the columns waiting for his arrival. Its absence throws him off—he was so sure they’d had some sort of breakthrough last time—and he slows to a halt under the arch.

This is his first mistake.

James takes a moment to delay his disappointment and looks to the ledge on either side of the arch. Still no cat.

This is his second mistake.

James hears a scrape from directly over his head and has time to think that his Quidditch reflexes are getting far too much use outside of actual Quidditch practice for his liking before he’s ducking to his left out of instinct. An object rushes past his ear and clips his shoulder before landing with a thick thud. His hand flies to his shoulder in an attempt to rub out what he can already tell will be an impressive bruise before he looks to the heavy tome sitting innocuously next to his right foot. Then he turns his gaze to the top of the arch and the cat, shamelessly meeting his eyes.

“Ow,” James says with intention.

The cat looks him up and down as if searching for what could possibly be ailing him and coming up empty.

James turns to face it more fully while taking one wise step away from the arch, lest the little beast have more literature to maul him with.

“You know if your intention is to off me, there are much cleaner ways of doing so,” James says, still rubbing his shoulder. The cat begins to walk along the top of the arch and one roll of its shoulder mimes a careless shrug in an I take inspiration as it comes gesture.

“What could possibly be so important that you think the best way to get it into my head is through blunt force?” James wonders aloud as he stoops to pick up the book. It’s a truly dense thing, and he has to heft it into his arms with both hands before he can turn it over. Across a deep blue cover are the words ARITOLEMEUS’ GUIDE TO COSMIC WONDERS, CONSTELLATIONS, AND THE NORTHERN NIGHT SKY: 714^th EDITION.

He barks a laugh and gives the cat an incredulous look. Sense of humor indeed.

It stares back and flicks its tail from where it's settled on its ledge as if to say You’re welcome.

It does not escape James that this most definitely means the cat can read too.

“I see you didn’t appreciate my wisdom then after all,” he says as he lugs the book over to the rail and places it on one of the columns. Out of the corner of his eye a flash of black precedes the cat prowling its way across the railing and lying down next to the column and the book.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” James sighs.

The cat looks at him like It’s nice to have dreams.

“Look, can we compromise?” He pulls the book to one side of the column to leave the other half empty for the cat. It gives him a hard stare—James thinks to cement the fact that it is doing this of its own volition, not because James suggested it—and then steps up onto the column where it sits next to the book with a regal posture.

James just shakes his head and suppresses a grin.

“Let’s see what we’re working with then,” he says as he flips the book open to the table of contents. It covers everything from major historical instances of celestial significance to star charts for sailors to a brief section on planetary alignment for potion making purposes. James thinks Monty would be absolutely enthralled by this book.

The cat leans into his space a bit more to better see the page, and James turns the book to face it so they’re sharing, careful not to touch the cat. Then it sets its paw on one item of the list and turns its head to look James in the eye.

James peers over the paw to see that it’s indicated the chapter entitled “Constellation Configurations and Mythological Origins: Autumnal Equinox to Winter Solstice.”

Jame snorts. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he says as he flips through the book to page 548. “I know when I’m being forcefully educated.”

The cat just gives its head a quick shake, the most cat-like gesture James has seen from it so far, that still manages to say If you didn’t want to be educated you shouldn’t have revealed your ignorance.

The chapter begins with a section on the Andromeda constellation, a name James recognizes from Sirius’s occasional letters from his cousin and fellow outcast of the Black family. The cat seems to tense at the heading but allows James to narrate a few facts about the stars comprising the constellation and its discovery.

Then they get to the myth, and James reads aloud the usual dramatic transactional dynamics of the Greeks, with their hubris and insults that call for retribution, the interactions of mortals and gods with power imbalances that somehow always seem to balance in the end, and the sacrifice of innocents on behalf of their families that James never understood. The part where Cepheus chains Andromeda to the rock for the sea monster Cetus when it was Andromeda’s mother that offended the Nereids in the first place pisses James off and he says as much.

“So many of the Greek myths have to do with this nonsense that puts someone completely blameless in the path of harm,” James rants. “And not all of them get saved by some sexy hero at the last second.”

The cat looks at him blankly. He decides to take it how he wants.

“I know, this one works out quite well for Andromeda actually so good for her, but imagine being handed over to a monster by your own parents to make up for their failures. It’s just not right, you have to agree.”

The cat turns away from him at this. It sets its stare on the treetops and swishes its tail a little.

“Something about family back then, I guess. The whole exchange of blame between people and one person carrying the responsibility of the whole family just doesn’t really make sense.” He thinks of his own parents helping Sirius through the door and offering him a home on that awful night. “You’re supposed to do it together.”

James leans forward to rest his elbows on the pillar. It reminds him a bit of what Regulus had said the other day about debts, about not liking to leave anything on the table and cleaning up all loose ends so no one could come looking for him in the future, when the debt had festered and multiplied to something he couldn’t afford to pay.

Well, he didn’t say all of that, but James has extrapolated, and he’s pretty sure that’s what he meant. He has yet to show Regulus that not all people intend to extort him out of everything he can offer.

That doesn’t mean he’s thought of what he’s going to ask Regulus for yet. He has no bloody clue.

James sighs and goes to turn the page to the next constellation, but a pitch black paw lands on his hand and pushes it away from the corner of the page.

It’s soft to the point that James isn’t even sure he felt it and warm through the smooth pads on the bottom.

He tries again and the paw bats him away. He grips the corner of the page one more time and doesn’t move when the paw sets on his hand.

He looks at the cat, and the cat stares back.

“Just the one then?”

The cat presses down on his hand.

“Alright,” James concedes. He reluctantly pulls his hand from under the cat’s paw and closes the massive book. Beside him, the cat stretches in a languid line even darker than the night sky around it. Then it flashes those silver eyes at him and leaps back to its ledge on the tower wall. James collects the book and turns to the arch.

“I’ll bring it next time?”

The cat spares him a glance then lays down on the ledge, all but disappearing as it tucks itself into the shadows and directs its gaze to the stars.

James takes the dismissal as his cue to leave.

He bounces down the steps of the tower humming some Queen song Sirius had been playing in the dorm earlier.

So the cat may have tried to kill him tonight, but it also kind of held his hand.

James thinks he might have made a new friend.

*

James, Peter, and Sirius stumble into their dorm at a terribly early hour on Saturday morning, beat up and bone tired. The sun hasn’t even begun to rise yet so Peter, the most mobile of all of them, bustles around turning on lamps. James yanks his shoes off and just barely restrains himself from kicking his bedpost.

He doesn’t know what he was thinking, why he assumed that a few days of slightly warmer relations between Sirius and Remus would fix everything in time for the full moon.

It was awful.

James and Sirius had had the conversation before about whether Padfoot should join them for full moons when Remus was still more likely to curse him out in Welsh than he was to say “Good morning.” They had decided that yes, he should come. Partially because Padfoot was the best with Moony, some doggy kinship between them allowing a degree of communication that Moony couldn’t manage with the rest of them. Partially because Sirius might have died of guilt if he let them all go off without him on the hardest night of every month. James had forgotten all about that conversation with their newfound truce in place, and now he's regretting it.

The thing about being animals was that emotions were simplified. There was no hiding behind layers of propriety or denial in their other forms, so whatever they were really feeling was what came out on full moon nights. For the most part that meant that the happiness they felt in each other’s company with the freedom of the forest under the glory of the night sky manifested as undiluted joy, so potent it filled up Prongs’ great stag heart and left James smiling as he drifted to sleep in his bed the next morning.

That was not the case last night.

Moony had been strange and mercurial. As soon as they’d escaped the Shack and made it into the woods, he’d lunged for Padfoot. It wasn’t playful like usual, and Padfoot had yelped. Moony batted at him with large paws and nipped at his ears and neck. Prongs had leapt between them and fended Moony off with his antlers, but then Padfoot had barked from behind him and tried to slip around Prongs. Prongs and Wormtail tried distracting them, coaxing them into a run or at least away from each other, but it seemed like all they wanted to do was fight.

It wasn’t exactly fighting though either. They’ve seen Moony tear into creatures in the Forbidden Forest during a hunt or if they made the mistake of trying to take a swipe at Padfoot, Prongs, or Wormtail. It was always unhesitating and completely vicious; the creatures were dead before they could make a sound, and James is certain that if Moony had actually wanted to hurt Padfoot, Sirius would be in critical shape right now. But he’s not because Moony and Padfoot had barked and bared their teeth and bitten at each other, but they’d hardly broken skin or left more than bruises. Still, Prongs had spent hours trying to watch both of them while placing himself in between to make sure they didn’t accidentally do more damage. Wormtail had climbed trees and caught their attention where he could.

At some point in the night, Wormtail had guided them to a familiar piece of terrain, one where a collection of boulders piled up along a ridge. At a sharp curve, they covered both sides and created a sort of walled corner. Prongs caught on to Wormtail’s plan and maneuvered Moony into the space so that he was bracketed on two sides by the rocks. Then Prongs stood guard in front of him and made sure he couldn’t get to Padfoot.

It was here that things took a turn for the worse.

Moony tried to work around Prongs and snapped his teeth at him in warning, but Prongs’ size had always been enough to keep him in line. Behind him Padfoot kicked up a fuss when Prongs and Wormtail wouldn’t let him pass. After multiple attempts, Moony clawed the ground in frustration and let out a doleful howl.

He ripped at the gnarled roots arching out of the dirt.

Then he left gashes in the deep moss on the boulders.

Then he turned his claws on himself.

The Marauders had never actually seen Moony’s self-mutilation. They knew it used to happen of course; he had told them, and the scars spoke for themselves. But ever since they had mastered the animagus transformation and been witnesses to full moons, Moony had been more than content to run and play all night, no more a danger to himself than he was to them.

Last night, though, Moony collapsed on the dirt and slung a clawed paw over his shoulder, drawing four lines of red into it. Then he sunk his teeth into his front leg and tore at it until his jaws came away wet and furry. Prongs reared up on his hind legs and knocked Moony’s head away, snorting at him in panic. But Moony just growled at him and hunkered deeper into the corner. He ripped at his neck and back like something was eating him from the inside out. Padfoot started losing his mind and barking like mad, jumping up and planting his paws on Prongs when he wouldn’t let him pass. Sometimes Moony would bark back but then he’d shake his head and try for another patch of open hide on his legs.

It went like that, Moony scratching into his own skin and crying out in pain, Prongs stepping as close as he dared to get in his way, Padfoot yipping and whimpering from where he couldn’t reach Moony.

It came down to Wormtail in the end, running across Moony’s paws and squeaking in his ear, annoying him until he made half-hearted attempts to scare him away. But just before it was time for them to make their way back to the Shack, Moony turned angry. He almost bit Wormtail’s tail off and then dug his claws deep into his own soft stomach. Prongs reared up again and kicked out with one hoof. The audible crack of bone and Moony’s yelp echoed off the rocks, but it had stopped him from opening the gash too much more.

The journey back was long and difficult and James doesn’t remember most of it.

He does remember getting Moony back into the Shack but not having enough time to leave before he began to transform again. He remembers his screams and the horrible sight of bones wrenching under skin (and some not under skin). He remembers how Remus went quiet before the transformation was complete, passed out with pain or blood loss or who knows what.

Peter and James had transformed right there, grabbing their wands and slowing the bleeding as much as they dared with Madame Pomfrey on her way. But Padfoot had whimpered and crawled over to Remus’s blood-covered form.

He nosed at Remus’s hair and whined when he didn’t stir. He’d licked his cheek and then the scratch on his neck. Then he’d moved his face to the deep gash on his stomach and licked at the blood oozing up slowly like he could lap it all away.

Peter had grabbed James’s arm as they’d watched it play out helplessly.

But James whispered Padfoot’s name when he’d heard Madame Pomfrey’s boots in the passage and pulled him out of the room. They heard her enter and curse under her breath before she rushed to Remus’s side.

As they had trudged back up to the castle in the dark with the morning dew clinging to their shoes, James couldn’t shake the image of Padfoot on his stomach pressed into Remus’s side with his big wet eyes. He thought about Moony’s unpredictable behavior in the Forest and came to the depressing realization that what they had seen wasn’t Remus’s anger or frustration.

Remus was sad. As sad as Sirius.

And Moony took that sadness out on himself.

In the dorm, Sirius sits despondent on his bed, toying with a role of bandage in his hands. He’s got his fair share of bruises and a few bleeding cuts across his shoulders and arms where he’s removed his shirt, but he makes no move to bandage them.

Peter drags himself to the door and murmurs something about getting food from the kitchens before he casts James one last worried look and slips out.

James walks over to Sirius and pulls the bandage out of his hands. He grabs a wet flannel from the bathroom and cleans off the cuts, then does the same for the few shallow scratches on his own sides. James wraps the bandage a few times around Sirius’s right shoulder and sticks a plaster over the left. The whole time, Sirius stares straight ahead at the wall.

James covers his own cuts and sits down next to Sirius.

It's quiet for a long time, the guilt and terror of last night heavy between them.

Then Sirius says, “Do you think he’s alright?”

It’s a rather stupid question, all things considered, but they can’t visit Remus in the Hospital Wing until after breakfast is over, hours from now. James knows it’s all Sirius will think about until then.

“I’m sure he will be. Poppy takes good care of-”

“Gods, do you think it was always like that before?” Sirius blurts. He covers his mouth with his hand like he wishes he could have held the question in.

Personally, James thinks this was probably one of the worst; it’s likely Moony had never had the influence of such a strong emotion as this all-consuming sadness driving him to try and rip himself apart before. But James won’t tell Sirius that.

“What am I doing, James?” Sirius asks as tears build in his eyes. “Merlin, it’s like I can’t stop hurting him.” The last word ends on a sob, and James wraps his arms around his shoulders and holds him tight enough to bruise.

Normally James is a master of consolation. He knows just what to say and just how to say it, but he’s at a loss here. There are really no words that can follow a night like that. To try and downplay it would disrespect the pain Remus is currently in and the injury Moony inflicted on himself. To recognize the full gravity of it would be to surrender to a despair so complete they might never climb out of it.

So James lets himself sink into the ache with Sirius, doesn’t try to fix it or fight it anymore.

“I think I broke his arm,” James says. He feels his own tears pushing at the back of his throat.

He’s never hurt one of his friends before. He feels hot with shame and a bit dizzy like he doesn’t know himself like he used to.

Sirius surprises James by giving one pitiful laugh in his arms.

“He’s going to kill you if it’s his right arm and he can’t finish the Transfiguration essay.”

James finds himself laughing in return.

“You’re so right. He’ll dictate it to me and make me copy it down for him.”

“Then swear at you when your handwriting sucks.”

They laugh quietly together through their tears and just like that the night feels a little lighter.

Sirius sniffs and pulls away gently. He scrubs at his face then loops his hair into a messy bun.

“I’ve got to fix this, James,” he says as he lays down on his bed. “Before the next full. We can’t do that again, I don’t think I could stand it.”

James nods and lays down next to him. They’re shoulder to shoulder propped against the pillows, staring at Remus’s empty bed directly across from Sirius’s.

“I know you can,” James says. He’s not sure why he says it, but he thinks that maybe no one has ever told Sirius that while he’s excellent at making mistakes, he’s also very capable of fixing them.

Sirius turns his head to look at him then looks back at Remus’s bed. He nods absentmindedly to himself. James scoots closer and feels his eyes start to slide shut. When he wakes, they’ll eat a late breakfast from the kitchens. Then they’ll shower and dress and march down to the Hospital Wing to spend the rest of the day (or as long as Madame Pomfrey will tolerate them) with Remus.

For now, James slips into an exhausted sleep with his head against Sirius’s shoulder and the first rays of dawn coming through the windows.

*

The late morning light makes Remus look much worse where he lays in stark white sheets. At least, James hopes this is the case.

His scratches have been sealed and bandaged; those that are visible stand out shiny and pink and tender on his skin. For his sake, James is relieved his face is mostly unscathed but for a few colorful bruises. However, there is a new set of four neat lines racing across the side of his neck that he won’t be able to hide. The deep gashes on his stomach are tightly wrapped, and James knows from experience that it will take Madame Pomfrey a few more rounds of dittany and healing spells to close them completely.

Beyond that, Remus is pale and tired looking even as he sleeps. He right arm is bound up in a sling.

Remus likely doesn’t remember the details of last night like the rest of them do, but he’s plenty smart enough to work out what happened.

Sirius’s steps falter a bit when he sees him, and Peter puts a hand on his back to guide him forward. They collect chairs from around the other beds and station themselves at Remus’s side. Peter opens his bag and dumps an impressive pile of chocolate near Remus’s feet. He looks up when he feels James’s and Sirius’s eyes on him.

“What?”

“Where the hell did you summon all that from?” Sirius asks.

“It’s the stash,” he says like it should be obvious. “For emergencies only, you hog.”

Sirius scoffs as James smiles and says, “Quite wise, Peter.”

“Could you imagine a dog getting into all this chocolate?”

“It would be a right mess. You really should thank him, Sirius, you might have wound up dead.”

“I wouldn’t bloody eat it as Padfoot, you twats.”

“So you admit you would have eaten it?”

“No, I-”

“I don’t know, I’ve seen Sirius eat some pretty vile things even when he doesn’t have the excuse of being a dog.”

All three of their heads whip around when they hear Remus’s scratchy voice. They stare at each other for a moment, then Remus says, “Thanks, Pete.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Remus stretches slightly but doesn’t make a move to sit up. James assumes the wounds on his stomach have immobilized him pretty thoroughly.

Remus meets each of their eyes and lingers on Sirius’s. James wonders how much of the moments after his transformation Remus knows of, if he was even aware of Padfoot trying to lick his blood away.

James can tell that Remus wants to apologize, either from embarrassment or for the whole ordeal, but they’d long ago convinced him to stop with the sorrys altogether. Mostly because the Marauders would talk over him or pretend to go suddenly and inexplicably deaf whenever he started down that path.

Instead he gestures to his arm and looks at James.

“I assume this was you?”

James rubs the back of his neck.

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

There’s no rule against him apologizing.

“Oh, you will be, mate,” Remus says as he lays his head back down. “Slave for a week, I can already picture it.”

“Merlin, I’m going to have to take your meticulous notes for you, aren’t I?”

“Brush his hair,” Sirius adds.

“Feed him toast,” says Peter.

“Fold my clothes, carry my bag, hold my dick while I take a piss.”

“Whack Sirius around the head when he’s being an ass.”

“Hey,” Sirius folds his arms but doesn’t look particularly angry when Remus gives a tired smile.

“That too,” he says. He looks at James again and just how he can see whatever it is James tries to hide, James can see the buried gratitude in his eyes.

He sits back in his chair. “I’ve only got two hands mate. You’re going to have to prioritize a bit.”

Remus huffs a laugh.

“I’ll write up my list. Actually, you’ll write up my list.” He shakes his arm a little. “It should be mostly fine by Tuesday, just no fending Bludgers off with my bare hands.”

“Aw,” Sirius throws his hands up and slumps back. “Your favorite activity. How could Poppy do this to you?”

Remus smiles a bit and they look at each other with way too many emotions for Peter or James to sort through. James kind of feels like he should be leaving the room.

Then Remus clears his throat and says, “Speaking of, what’s on the docket for today? Isn’t it the first game this afternoon?”

“Well,” James says meeting Sirius’s gaze. “We kind of thought we’d hang here and annoy the pants off you till Poppy kicks us out.”

James knows they’re not being subtle, but he’s hoping Remus will take pity on them and let them keep an eye on him just for the afternoon.

To his surprise though, this seems to summon some well of energy from within Remus. He squints at James and lifts his head a bit.

“No. No, no, I need at least one of you at that game. You have to be there since I can’t.”

The rest of them trade baffled looks. Remus has never given much thought to Quidditch, mostly went to the games for something to do or to support James and Sirius, but he was just as likely to stay behind and read a book if the weather looked nasty or he was too tired of crowds.

“What’s with the sudden interest?” Peter asks.

Remus sniffs. “I suppose I’ve just finally realized what a fascinating and engaging sport Quidditch can be.”

Sirius narrows his eyes at him.

“You’ve put money on it, haven’t you?”

“So much money,” Remus blurts. “So you lot have to go to protect my investments and make sure Marlene doesn’t convince the rest of the student body to lie to me about the score when she loses terribly.”

James laughs. “What’ve you two bet on then?”

“Marlene seems to think Ravenclaw has even the slightest chance of taking the match. It’s actually quite sad when you realize that one of your friends whom you’ve previously respected can possess such hilariously poor judgment.”

“And so you’ve bet that…”

“Slytherin wins the match within two hours when Regulus catches the Snitch,” Remus says with absolutely no hesitation. “I get bonus if he does so with an absurd excess of style or skill.”

They’re silent for a moment. Then Peter and James bust out laughing at Remus’s smug look and Sirius’s shocked one.

“You- you can’t just bet on my brother like that!” Sirius flails his hands a little.

“I can and I have,” Remus says. “I’m half tempted to give him a cut what with how much I’m about to take off Marlene.”

“That’s- but-”

“That’s bloody brilliant, mate,” James says as he removes his glasses where they’re fogging up on his face.

“Exactly, which is why I need someone with an actual understanding of the sport to go be my eyes. You have to make sure Marlene doesn’t try to argue some loophole, and then you have to come back here and give me a play by play account of how red her face gets during the match.”

“Alright mate,” James says, patting his leg under the blanket. “We’ll go collect your winnings for you.”

James is just pleased that Remus doesn’t seem too downtrodden after last night. He supposes the whole thing might have been much more traumatic for the rest of them who had never seen Moony like that before. It certainly seems the case for Sirius.

“Actually,” Sirius says as he shifts in his seat. “I might hang back here if that’s alright. I’ve got more work than I know what to do with. Plus Marlene will probably take it out on me if my brother loses her a fortune. And she fights dirty.”

He meets James’s eyes across the bed, and James gives him a slight smile of encouragement. He’s always a fan of Sirius&Remus time.

Remus gives a faint, “Yeah, alright then,” and they move on to the heap of chocolate at the end of the bed.

They eat lunch together and take turns flattering Madame Pomfrey when she comes by to try to kick them out. By the time the game rolls around, Remus has fallen asleep again.

Peter and James sneak out of the Hospital Wing while Sirius gazes at Remus’s still form and pulls the blankets up a little.

*

James is a little worried for Remus’s financial prospects by the time they reach the 90 minute mark of the game.

Ravenclaw’s Chasers don’t stack up quite as well to Slytherin’s, but their Beaters are a rather scary double act. Their aim is almost preternatural, and it’s messed up more than one of Slytherin’s plays. James is taking notes.

The score is tighter than James would have thought too: 110-90 in Slytherin’s favor, but neither team is letting up. The first match of the season always brings out an extreme of competition and showmanship in the players, and the excitement is palpable from James’s spot in the stands.

It is in no way dampened by the torrential rain that picked up about 20 minutes ago.

The students and faculty have produced coats and umbrellas and any number of spells to keep themselves dry, though James is questioning their efforts with the wind blowing the rain nearly horizontal. Colleen O’Donnell is announcing the game and has acquired a pair of enchanted binoculars to see through the storm and track the players.

The weather gives the whole thing a rather giddy feel, like the ridiculousness of standing outside screaming your head off while brooms fly past at breakneck speed is heightened by being soaked through with endless freezing water.

James is a bit more sober about the whole thing where he keeps his eyes glued to the two Seekers. He’s even cast a water repellant charm on his glasses.

Objectively, this is the absolute worst weather for Snitch seeking. Visibility is nonexistent and the rain creates misleading flashes when the light reflects off of it. Not to mention, the usual mad dash that Seekers have to do when they spot the Snitch, already one of the most dangerous parts of any game, becomes that much more impossible with a wet broom and cold hands.

The Ravenclaw Seeker is looking this way and that, likely misdirected by the rain, James thinks. He’s more focused on the distant spot of dark green hovering calmly over the far side of the pitch. If Regulus has lost his cool yet, James certainly can’t tell.

Ravenclaw scores another goal and the crowd responds with a wave of sound. Then lightning flashes, lighting up monumental clouds, and James sees Regulus’s head whip to the side.

James feels a slow smile creeping onto his face.

Regulus rotates his broom gradually to face the other direction. To anyone who’s not watching him as closely, to the other players and Seeker, it would likely just look like an unintentional drift from a gale, but James knows better.

Regulus has seen something. He grips the wooden railing in anticipation.

When he moves, James remembers why he can’t look away from him during matches.

Most people ride brooms, like an animal or a machine separate from themselves. James can’t help but think they’re all doing it wrong when he watches Regulus.

It’s like it becomes a part of him, like they’re communicating or maybe Regulus was born with a broom in his hands that got cut away from him as a child and now they’re celebrating their reunion. The broom moves, and Regulus moves too.

He drops out of the sky with a twist that has him just barely dodging a Ravenclaw Chaser. Regulus has molded himself to the broom’s shaft with one arm extended out towards the end so that he can direct it with minute gestures. The other hand grips it tight under his chest with his elbow tucked into his side. He’s shaped himself into an arrow and ducked below the gameplay to chase what the rest of them can’t see.

Peter slaps his arm excitedly. “Oh Merlin, there he goes. He’s seen it!”

Colleen has caught on too, as well as the Ravenclaw Seeker. The whole crowd has their attention on Regulus now as the game proceeds above him.

He tips to the side briefly to allow a Bludger to zoom past his head then rights himself without taking his eyes off the Snitch. Then his head snaps up, and James has a moment to yell out one frantic “No!” before Regulus follows it into the heat of gameplay.

He weaves around players and judges when he can make them weave around him and as much as he’s moving the broom he’s also moving himself on the broom, ducking and swinging off the side and laying completely flat before launching himself up to allow another Bludger to literally fly between himself and the broom, brushing under his chest with only centimeters to spare.

James thinks he’s going to have a heart attack. No one plays it close like Regulus Black.

He bursts out of the confusion of the other players and angles to the side in a tight turn. Then he aims his broom straight towards the sky. He plants his feet on the stirrups, wraps an arm around the shaft, and pulls the broom in close as an embrace as he pushes up with his legs and shoots directly after the Snitch.

The heads of the crowd all angle together as they watch him gain speed. Regulus extends one hand straight above his head and the wind and the rain whip his black curls and robes behind him.

He’s getting dangerously close to the thunderhead.

James thinks he can see the tiny golden Snitch less than a length away from his outstretched fingers.

Then the Snitch cuts an acute zag back down towards pitch, and James thinks he’s lost it.

But Regulus throws his broom horizontal, locks his ankles around the shaft, and unfurls himself like a banner, holding on with only his feet and his right hand as he drops under it, his left hand shooting out to scoop the Snitch from where it flies a meter below.

James’s ears ring for a moment and realizes he’s holding his breath. Then-

“HE’S GOT IT! REGULUS BLACK HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH FOR SLYTHERIN AFTER A MARVELOUS CHASE! SLYTHERIN WINS THE FIRST MATCH OF THE SEASON!”

The crowd screams and Peter is jumping next to James, but James is still trying to calm his heartbeat and quell is smile.

Regulus rolls himself back onto his broom and holds up the Snitch before flying down to the muddy grass where he’s attacked by his teammates.

James scoops a soggy handful of hair off his forehead and takes a moment to breathe again.

Peter tugs his arm.

“C’mon, let’s go find Marlene.”

James drags his stare away from Regulus where Dorcas Meadowes has swung an arm around his shoulders.

They navigate the crowd moving towards the stairwells and find Marlene with Mary and Lily and few rows beneath them. She has her hands buried in her soaked blonde hair and a look of baffled outrage on her face. James grins and pretends to straighten a suit jacket.

“Ms. McKinnon! Glad to have found you here. Excellent match, wasn’t it?”

She looks over at him and her face falls into a glare. Behind her, Lily and Mary trade a glance and suppress smiles from where they stand under Mary’s umbrella.

James snatches Marlene’s hand up and give it two vigorous shakes.

“I’m Mr. Potter and this is my associate Mr. Pettigrew. We’re here on behalf of the R. J. Lupin Esquire Collection Agency. I understand you have some accounts you’d like to settle with us?”

“Oh, piss off,” she groans. “I’m going to fucking kill Anita. She assured me Ravenclaw had it in the bag.”

“Murder plans aside, Ms. McKinnon, I believe you owe Mr. Lupin… what was the quote again, Mr. Pettigrew?”

“‘A truly disgusting amount of money.’”

“Ah yes, that was it. ‘A truly disgusting amount of money’ to be paid in full in either chocolate or currency at your earliest convenience.”

Marlene’s head pops up at that. “You think he’ll accept it in chocolate?”

“No, sorry. Mr. Lupin is looking forward to his payment in cold hard cash,” Peter says.

Mary and Lily laugh when Marlene groans again.

“You should have known Remus would be a bloody tough gambler, Marlene,” Mary says. Her curls are confusingly perfect even in this weather. “That man hates to be wrong.”

“That reminds me,” James says, “I believe there was an added fee attached for performances of…”

“‘Absurd excesses of style and skill.’”

“Absolutely right, Mr. Pettigrew. And I’m sure, as connoisseurs of the sport ourselves, we can agree, Ms. McKinnon, that this particular catch falls well within the bounds-”

“Yeah, alright I get the picture,” Marlene interrupts him waving a hand in his face. “Lupin will take me for all I’m worth and then some and dance on my grave when I starve to death on the streets. Whatever.”

Mary and Lily are laughing again.

“We’ll take you in, Marlene,” Lily says patting her on the shoulder.

“Yeah, you can do house work for us or something. Earn your keep,” Mary smirks.

“So bloody good to me you lot are,” Marlene grumbles and stands from the bench.

They head back to the castle together and dry off by the fire in the common room. Then James changes clothes and follows Peter down to the Hospital Wing to deliver the good news to Remus before he has to meet Regulus for Transfiguration.

But when they peek behind the curtains around Remus’s bed, James slams an arm into Peter’s stomach to stop him from barging in. He lets out an oof and looks over James’s shoulder.

The rain still falls consistently outside the window behind where Remus lays, dimming his little curtained off section and allowing the orange lamplight to play over the two figures ensconced within it. Remus is asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily. His bruises look a bit better and the shadows under his eyes aren’t so deep.

But James is looking at Sirius. He’s also asleep with one arm tucked under his chest and his other hand wrapped loosely around Remus’s wrist. He’s rested his head just above Remus’s hip, and the fingers of Remus’s right hand have tangled lightly in strands of black hair where they poke out from his sling.

Peter claps a hand over his mouth and backs away slowly. James eases the curtain closed and does the same. They mime some frantic gestures to each other that translate into Let’s get out of here oh my god and close the doors to the Hospital Wing behind them with the thunder rumbling gently outside.

James says his goodbyes to Peter and half runs half walks to the Transfiguration classroom, hoping he hasn’t kept Regulus waiting.

Chapter Text

Regulus is waiting for James in the Transfiguration classroom.

He’d showered and changed out of his sopping Quidditch robes and into a sweater that isn’t quite doing its job of infusing him with warmth. Then he’d ducked past the party already raging in the Slytherin common room, dodging pats and congratulations and drinks offered his way.

He’d even had to endure a rather aggressive come-on from a seventh year girl so James had better be goddamn appreciative and show up like he said he would.

The past week has been strange to say the least. First, James had shown up twice at the Astronomy Tower when Regulus was there as the cat. The cat is prone to avoiding all people no matter who they are, so it surprises Regulus a bit that he’s willing to go out of his way to mess with James when he’s around.

It is a bit fun though. Regulus doesn’t get to have much fun.

There’s also the matter of how James treats the cat. He talks to him like he knows he can understand, and Regulus kind of assumes that’s because James is just the type to talk to animals or any living creature in his vicinity. He wonders if James would have said what he did when they were reading the Andromeda myth if he’d known it was Regulus he was talking to. Regulus is still trying to wrap his head around what he could have possibly meant when he said that families weren’t supposed to trade blame or put their problems on one person. He had always found the Greek myths comforting and familiar in how they seemed to operate along the same lines of logic as his own life.

Then he’d actually met James and talked to him to sort out Transfiguration practice. He’s still not sure why he agreed to it, why he found James’s earnest desire to help him so convincing. Aside, of course, from his rather impressive display of transfiguration on the plant.

Regulus has set the ring on his nightstand, and he looks at it sometimes, thinks about shoving it in a drawer, and ultimately leaves it where it is. But James had been receptive to all his conditions, and Regulus really does need to get a move on with this transfiguration practice so why the hell not. If anything, someone as soft as James will be easier to bully into silence and scare off when this whole thing is done.

What’s eating at Regulus is what James will ask him for. Whether it’s a favor or a possession, he’s sure he can dig something up and deliver. Then they’ll be even and James won’t have to come asking questions way down the line. Regulus can wash his hands of him after a few months of working together and it will be like the whole thing never happened.

Regulus has learned his lesson about owing debts, even to people who you don’t mind owing them to. Especially to them.

Between all that and the lingering anxiety of the Horcrux revelation, Regulus has not had a good night of sleep in about a week. He feels as if he's taking the first wobbling steps onto a very long tightrope.

The lack of sleep is starting to catch up to him. He was actually a bit grateful for the rain during the match today waking him up and complicating the game. He’s always played better in worse odds. He’d also glamoured some of the more obvious signs of fatigue away from his face so the Slytherin captain wouldn’t ask questions, though the enchantment has probably worn off by now.

His thoughts are interrupted by the classroom door banging open and a breathless, frazzled James Potter propping himself against the doorway.

“Sorry,” he manages. “Had to stop by… and we were all wet from…” He’s too busy trying to gulp down air to complete a sentence, not that Regulus is particularly interested in his excuses.

Before he can say anything though, James regains himself and shuts the door.

“That,” he says, pointing at Regulus, “was bloody spectacular.”

Regulus is not prepared for such an honest, genuine compliment.

“Oh.”

“Merlin, really I’ve never seen anyone fly like that,” James says shaking his head and making his way to sit at the desk across from Regulus. “You’ve got to be absolutely mad to pull some of those stunts, I don’t even think I was breathing for most of it.”

Regulus tries to think of something to say but James keeps going.

“And on top of that, you won Remus a rather substantial fortune so I’m sure he’ll want to shake your hand at some point.” James runs a hand through his wild hair. “Bloody well done, honestly.”

He finally looks Regulus in the eye and his grin fades as his brows furrow. 

“Regulus, are you-”

Regulus doesn’t have time for this.

“Shall we get started?”

James looks like he wants to push back but then he settles in his chair and says, “Yeah, alright. What did you want to work on?”

Regulus takes a deep breath and sets his cards on the table.

“Replication. As precise as possible.”

“Well that shouldn’t be-”

“No, I mean down to the particle, Potter. It can’t just look the same, it has to weigh the same, and feel the same, and give off the same aura.”

“Regulus, what the hell are you up to?”

Regulus huffs.

“I’m robbing a vault.” It’s not even that far from the truth.

James looks at him like he’s not sure if he’s kidding. It’s kind of funny.

“Why?”

“I want to be wealthy.”

“Aren’t you already wealthy?”

“I want to be independently wealthy.”

“I’m not sure that’s what they mean when they say that.”

“Then they should have been more specific. Look, can you do this or not? It’s likely going to progress beyond either of our capabilities very quickly so I’m willing to pursue it on my own if you think you’re just going to be a burden.”

“No, I can help,” James says, scooting forward in his chair. “As long as you’re not actually robbing a vault.”

“I make no promises.”

James laughs at that.

“Alright well, why don’t we start with material tonight. I know a lot of the latter half of sixth year hits on that so you likely haven’t worked on it yet.”

James gets up and weaves around the room picking up items as he goes. When he comes back he sets a brass candlestick, a piece of chalk, a wooden box, and a glass paperweight on the desk in front of Regulus.

“We’ll start by keeping the shapes of the objects but switching their materials. It helps to have the reference in front of you when you’re trying to transfigure it so you can study the composition or feel the texture and the weight and stuff.”

It’s simple enough. Regulus tries transfiguring the box into brass first and it goes smoothly. The box is heavier and colder and shines with the same dull luster as the candlestick. The hinges even work.

“That’s quite good, actually. A lot of times the precision gets lost when you’re trying for something so dense,” James says. Regulus knows it’s good, so if he feels his cheeks heat at James’s words it’s because he’s finally warming up after the match.

The glass candlestick is pretty easy too, though it takes him a few tries to get the light to warp correctly through the curves. James shows him a trick with the spell that changes the transfiguration process so that it starts from the outside and works its way inward like the natural cooling process of molten glass.

“How did you figure that one?” Regulus can’t help but ask.

James shrugs and rubs one hand across the back of his hair.

“Um. Not sure. I guess I messed around with it a bit until it felt right.”

Regulus just says, “Huh,” and goes back to the objects before him. There’s more to unpack there.

The chalk and the wood turn out to be the most difficult, the chalk because it has a tendency to fall apart in certain shapes, the wood because the grain requires a precision and attention to detail that the others don’t. But Regulus is a fast learner, out of aptitude and necessity both. He still kind of wants to break the box by the end.

“Who the hell would ever need a chalk box?” Regulus says as he repairs it again after the lid cracked.

“Do you need a chalk box to rob your vault?” James asks from beside him.

“Fucking no.”

“Then I suppose you don’t have to worry about it,” he says straightening up. James sticks his wand in his pocket and plants his hands on his back before stretching the tension out. Regulus focuses on returning the objects to their original materials.

“I think that’s plenty for tonight, don’t you? Godric, you’ve already pretty much mastered the material switches.”

Regulus is pleased with his progress. At this rate, second semester Transfiguration is going to be a breeze, not that that’s at all the reason he’s doing this. He thinks about the different Horcruxes.

“I want to focus on metals next time.”

“Of course,” James says. “For all that gold you’re going to pilfer.”

“Mind your tone. I don’t have to give you a cut of my spoils.”

James laughs again. Regulus finds it a bit heady that he can make him do that.

From somewhere in the castle a clock chimes the hour.

“Merlin, is it already 10?” he says looking out the window. The reflections of the lamp light block out any view of the stars. Then James promptly looks back at Regulus.

“Shouldn’t you be at a party right now? Didn’t you just win a game, what are you doing here?”

Regulus sighs.

“Potter, I wouldn’t be here if I’d rather be at a party, therefore I must not want to be at a party.”

James looks confused.

“But why not? Parties are great. Especially when they’re celebrating you.”

“Not really my thing,” Regulus says.

James shrugs.

“Fair enough. Though I will of course be expecting your attendance at the Gryffindor party when we slaughter you in November.”

Regulus has to laugh at that incredible display of unfounded overconfidence.

“Not a chance, Potter.”

“Would it kill you to call me James?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m cursed. I can’t say that name.”

“Awfully specific curse.”

“Well, it was an awfully specific dark wizard.”

James’s mouth stretches into a wide smile.

“When should we meet next then?”

Regulus thinks.

“I could do Wednesday?”

“Works for me.”

James pushes in his chair but Regulus says, “Wait,” before he can go anywhere.

James looks at him expectantly and Regulus feels his palms start to sweat.

He swallows and asks, “Have you decided what you want in return?”

James, to his credit, only looks pensive. He leans against the desk behind him and crosses his arms. Regulus doesn’t like being so far below his gaze so he stands.

“I suppose I’m not going to be able to convince you that it’s all completely unnecessary?”

“Don’t waste your time.” Regulus has no interest in hearing how James’s rose-colored view of the world has blinded him to the realities of favors exchanged.

James takes a few minutes to stare at the ground, long enough that Regulus might wonder if he’s going to respond at all if he couldn’t see him actively thinking.

Then he lets out a breath and says, “Alright.”

Regulus braces himself.

“I think it would probably be most fair, since I’m kind of teaching you a new skill, that you do the same.”

James looks up and meets Regulus’s eyes. Regulus is a bit speechless.

James takes his silence as hesitation.

“It’s absolutely fine if you don’t want to. Also, I kind of don’t know what you would teach me since I don’t know what you know. But I bet there’s plenty, so-”

“Shut up, Potter.”

“Right.”

Regulus needs to think about this. Technically it would be a fair exchange, scrupulously fair in fact, more fair than he’s used to getting. He’s sure James would be content with learning a Quidditch tactic or something equally inane. But Regulus knows how crucial these transfiguration practices are going to be; they may end up saving his life. And if James ever finds out, which he won’t, then he has to make sure that he doesn’t feel the need to seek Regulus out and demand more compensation. Not that he seems like the type who would but if James finds out about Regulus’s “project” then Sirius most definitely will because they’re codependent twats who can’t compartmentalize shit between them. And Sirius certainly will come after Regulus if he thinks he’s pulled the wool over poor, sweet James’s eyes.

And that’s just not an option. Regulus needs Sirius far away from all of this.

A flash of an idea stops Regulus’s train of thought.

He slowly looks up at James, who, he realizes, has been studying his face this whole time.

“Potter?”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing after you graduate?”

The question takes James by surprise. He unfolds his arms and plants his hands on the desk behind him, stretching the fabric of his blue shirt across his chest. He assesses Regulus by some standard and seems to find him worthy.

“Well,” he starts, “what with the war and all…”

And Regulus already knows what he’s going to say.

“…I’m going to join up. Help out however I can-”

“God, I fucking knew you were going to say that you fucking idiot.”

“Well it’s not like I can just stand by,” James says more forcefully. “I can’t just watch people die when those people could be my friends or family.”

Regulus has plenty more to say on the subject, but it’s not his problem; James Potter is welcome to throw his life away if he so pleases. He’ll probably drag Sirius with him, or it will be the other way around. From what Regulus has seen of Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters, he doesn’t like their chances.

But he could even the playing field a little bit.

“What do you know of occlumency?”

James is thrown off center again.

“What?”

“Occlumency, keep up, Potter. Can you do it?”

“Merlin, no, of course not.”

“Do you want to?”

James looks dumbstruck. He runs his hand through his stupid hair again.

“I mean, yeah,” he says on a laugh. “Wait, can you?”

“Do you think I’d offer if I couldn’t?”

“Hold on, stop, just a second.” James pinches the bridge of his nose and blinks a few times. “You’re offering to teach me occlumency.”

“Yes.”

“In exchange for my teaching you Transfiguration.”

“Practicing, but alright.”

“Because you’re an occlumens.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Where do I sign up?”

Regulus sighs. He’s going to regret this.

“We can alternate Transfiguration and occlumency, but we’re going to have to go somewhere else for occlumency.” Regulus steps towards James though there’s not much space between them as it is. “I mean it, Potter, if no one can know about the Transfiguration then they definitely can’t know about the occlumency.”

“Alright-”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise,” James says, looking down at him.

Regulus steps back.

“Good.”

“Wait, Regulus.” Regulus looks back up at him. “Why are you doing this?”

Oh, well actually I’m being conscripted by the Dark Lord to be used against you as a weapon for acts of terrorism so I figured I might as well throw one of you poor fools a bone in this godforsaken war even if it’s just to assuage my conscience.

Fat chance.

Regulus shakes his head.

“I’m not answering that.”

James seems to remember their bargain then and nods.

“Can I exchange the question?” Regulus gives him a look, and James’s mouth spreads in a slow grin. “If you’re an occlumens, does that mean you’re also a legilimens?”

“You know you can be an occlumens without being an legilimens too, right?”

James just watches him expectantly.

“But yes, I am.”

“Fucking excellent.”

“Another thing that people absolutely cannot know, Potter.”

“Right, mum’s the word. Can you do it on me?”

“What?”

“The legilimency. Can you tell what I’m thinking?”

“Are you insane?” James is grinning like a madman so he must be. “You shouldn’t ever want someone to go digging around in your head, much less invite them to do it.”

“Try it on me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have principles. I don’t do it unless I have to.”

“That’s very decent of you.” James nods and crosses his arms. “Try it on me anyway.”

“I’m not-”

“But I’m letting you.”

“Fine!” Regulus throws his consciousness towards James’s and swipes through the shallows of his thoughts. With no shield in place, it’s effortless and over in a second.

There’s a lot more going on than Regulus anticipated.

“You’re thinking about… my brother. He’s in the Hospital Wing with Lupin.”

James’s face falls a little at that. He rubs at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, nasty spell gone wrong. He’ll be alright though.”

Regulus highly doubts it had anything to do with a spell, what with the full moon last night, but he doesn’t say anything. The next thing he comes across probably adds some color to his face.

“You’re also thinking about a cat.”

James’s face takes on a kind of private happiness, but he doesn’t offer up any details.

“Right again.”

Regulus’s chest feels like it’s being compressed between two rocks. He moves on.

“And you’re also thinking… this is so bloody cool I can’t believe I’m going to be an occlumens wait till I tell mum oh wait that’s right I can’t it’s a secret.”

James busts out laughing. He doubles over and puts his hands on his knees and Regulus has to move out of the way so he doesn’t end up with Jame’s head against his chest.

“You’re quite good! That was brilliant.” He straightens up again and looks at Regulus like he’s never seen him before. “I don’t suppose I get to learn how to do that too?”

“No.”

“Ah, well.”

“I should warn you though,” and James sobers a bit as Regulus says, “occlumency isn’t for everyone. Not everyone gets it, and not everyone can do it. My brother had no stomach for it so it’s not my fault if you can’t pick it up.”

“I understand,” James says. “No hard feelings.”

“Right.” Regulus nods. He’s not sure what he’ll do if the occlumency falls through, what else he’ll have to offer James, but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. “I’ll let you know where to meet Wednesday.”

“Sounds good,” James says.

Regulus winds around the desks and towards the door, but he stops when James calls his name. He turns back to look at him.

James hesitates.

“It’s just… are you alright?”

Regulus gives him a long look and then pushes out the door with the feeling of James’s eyes on his back.

It’s not a feeling Regulus likes. Between his concern and his patience and his excitement and his respect even when Regulus repeatedly shuts him down and his bloody laugh…there’s a small, minuscule chance that James Potter could become a minor problem.

*

Wednesday afternoon finds Regulus in the library with Barty, Evan, and Dorcas. They’ve just sent off another draft of the bill and moved on to actual homework assignments that actual sixteen-year-olds should be concerning themselves with. Dorcas looks like she’s melting over the table as she scrawls out some star chart or other, while Barty and Evan pretend Barty’s legs aren’t thrown over Evan’s lap across two chairs.

Regulus is supposed to be copying his notes for Pandora who was unable to attend Potions after she botched an experiment she’d been running and could only see in shades of orange for two days, but he instead finds himself sketching the locket in the margins of the page. He’s thinking about what Transfiguration techniques he’s going to have to master to get the opalescent sheen right.

He’s been slowly pulling himself back together over the last few days, forcing himself to sleep and retreating as the cat when he can’t. James had shown up at the Astronomy Tower on Monday with the star book and a hopeful look on his face. He’d smiled when he’d seen the cat and invited him down to their usual pillar to read through another chapter. It had been nice.

Regulus thinks the only thing that he doesn’t quite have his hands around yet (relatively speaking) is this occlumency business he’s roped himself into. But after tonight, he hopes he won’t have to worry about it. He’ll get the hang of it, they’ll make it a habit, and that will be that.

Regulus isn’t even a little caught up in the idea of having to stare into James Potter’s eyes for extended periods of time. That would be absurd.

His friends don’t seem to think so though. They know he’s practicing Transfiguration when he goes off alone sometimes; they’d badgered him for an explanation but when Regulus had firmly shut them down, they’d let it go with a look of understanding on their faces. They knew what took up most of his thoughts these days, and they knew he was going to do what he had to. He had, unfortunately, made the (huge, enormous) mistake of telling them that he was working with Potter after he felt bad about not being able to tell them the whys and hows of what he was doing. Barty’s face had split in a slow grin, and Regulus had felt the sudden urge to vacate the room.

“Potter, you say?”

As one of very few people in the world who knew Regulus’s type—on account of belonging to the category of taller-than-Regulus brunets with a kind of implacable energy about them—Barty’s significant look meant something dangerous and persistent was about to consume his interest. Barty had teased Regulus relentlessly when he’d discovered his preferences during one of their long-ago legilimency test/chat sessions, and Regulus thought that something might have eventually come of it if Evan weren’t so obviously head over heels for Barty. When Barty and Evan had finally gotten their shit together last year and Barty had made some wistful joke about what might have been with Regulus while Evan was still in earshot, Regulus had been momentarily frozen with dread.

But Evan had just perked up and said to Barty, “Darling, the only thing better than bagging you would be if you came with Reg as a plus one.”

Barty had grinned at Evan like the devil and kissed him slow and dirty right there in the common room. Then they’d both turned to Regulus.

“So what do you say?”

Regulus is not too proud to admit that he’d thought about it briefly. Like it or not, Barty was very much his type, and Regulus had always found something eye-catching about the dichotomy of Evan’s light hair and dark skin. Plus the sex would be fantastic.

But they were new and more than a bit crazy and Regulus wasn’t going to get in the way of any potential happiness or emotionally fraught, ill-fated, tandem crime sprees Barty and Evan might find with each other.

They’d actually spent a good half hour trying to talk him over, only half joking, after he’d declined, and they’d left the whole thing at “If you’re ever bored, and we mean ever, or if you need to be reminded what good sex is, you come to us first.”

Needless to say, Barty had been more than a little excited by the prospect of Regulus in close proximity to James Potter for the foreseeable future.

“So it’s like a hot for teacher thing then?” Barty had said at breakfast on Monday.

Dorcas had choked on her pumpkin juice and Regulus sighed.

“It most definitely isn’t and it’s not teaching. We’re just working together.”

“Mmhmm.” Barty had a way of making even his agreement sound filthy.

“You know if Reg isn’t interested in joining us we could always see if Potter swings this way,” Evan said to Barty while looking Regulus dead in the eye.

Regulus felt his cheeks heat and tried to suppress the flow of his blood.

Evan grinned wider.

“Now, now, we agreed that from anyone in that group we’d take Lupin first,” Barty said, patting Evan’s hand. “Extenuating circumstances or otherwise.”

“How is this- never mind.” Regulus didn’t want to know what Barty’s definition of ‘extenuating circumstances’ came down to.

Just then, Marlene McKinnon had climbed up on the bench at the Gryffindor table and planted her hands on her hips.

“If I can have your attention, please!”

The usual morning chatter around the Great Hall dimmed as people’s heads turned in her direction.

“Thank you!”

She sighed and hung her head for a moment. Regulus noticed Potter, Lupin, and Sirius sitting in the spaces around her trying hard to tamp down their laughter, along with the usual seventh-year Gryffindor rabble.

“Alright!” McKinnon threw her head back and stared at the ceiling depicting the beginnings of a clear day. “I, Marlene McKinnon, would like to publicly acknowledge my own severely impaired judgement through the donation of twelve galleons and fourteen sickles to Remus Lupin, whose intelligence-”

“And fiscal competency,” Sirius added.

“-and fiscal competency-”

“And raw animal magnetism,” Pettigrew suggested.

“-and, Merlin, raw animal magnetism far exceed my own in matters of Quidditch, with specific reference to a recent match played on the fourth weekend of September in the year 1977.”

She removed a handful of money from her pockets and unceremoniously dropped it in front of Lupin.

“My special gratitude to”—she gritted her teeth—“Slytherin House and Regulus Black for showing me the error of my ways.”

At this, the whole of Slytherin’s table erupted into applause as well as portions of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. McKinnon climbed down from the bench and dropped her head on the table.

“Beautiful speech, McKinnon,” Sirius said to her, patting her back.

“How about that,” Evan commented. “Looks like we chose well, Barty. Lupin clearly has some sense.”

“And Regulus has brought us all together for a heartwarming moment of interhouse unity,” Barty said, batting his eyes at Regulus.

Regulus glared at him and shifted his attention to the Gryffindors. From across the Hufflepuff table, James met Regulus’s eyes and grinned then raised his brow like I told you so.

Dorcas, who was also watching the Gryffindors, witnessed this interaction, and the whole ordeal of taking the piss out on Regulus began anew.

Now in the library, they’re too preoccupied to continue the assault. Barty is fiddling with a neatly columned list and making notations.

“Anyone here feel like kicking some ass in October?” Barty asks. At their silence, he looks up and waves the list like they should know what it means. “Our darling Pandora has conscripted me to advertise the Ravenclaw dueling competition next month because I have, and I quote, ‘a naturally charismatic persuasion about me that makes people want to do what I say.’” Barty ends with a self-satisfied smile.

“You know she only said that cause of that one time you lit Conrad’s hair on fire when he sat next to Evan in charms,” Dorcas comments from where her face is smashed into her hand.

“And it was indeed persuasive.”

Dorcas rolls her eyes.

“You can put my name down. I could really go for beating up some Gryffindors.”

“That is terribly sexy of you, Cas, your contribution is appreciated and highly anticipated,” Barty says, adding her name to the list. He looks up. “Reg? Anyone you’d like to lay out?” He asks, grinning again. Barty’s capacity for double entendre is unmatched.

“No, I think I’ll pass.”

“Excellent,” he says, writing Regulus’s name anyway.

“I said no.” Regulus charms his name off the list from across the table.

“Ugh fine. Can’t blame a bloke for trying to fulfill his fantasies.” Barty sets the quill down and twists in his chair to scan the pickings in their section of the library.

Just then Potter and his posse appear from behind the bookshelves and arrange themselves a few tables over from where the Slytherins are sitting.

Barty’s grin turns wicked.

“Perfect.”

Regulus’s stomach drops.

“Barty, what are you-”

“Shhh, hush darling,” Barty says as he stands and snatches the list off the table. “Daddy’s going hunting.”

And with that he saunters over to the Gryffindors’ table and drops himself right in Remus Lupin’s lap.

The reaction is immediate and admittedly hilarious. Pettigrew lurches back in his chair like a dragon just landed in front of him. Potter is frozen midway through removing a book from his bag, and Sirius has gripped the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles have turned white. He looks like he’s thinking of picking it up and throwing it. Honestly, his crush is getting pitifully out of hand. Regulus wonders if he realizes how obvious it is from a distance.

Lupin just groans, “Fucking hell, not this again,” which makes Sirius snap his head towards him and narrow his eyes.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Barty says, throwing an arm around Lupin’s shoulders. “Tell me, are any of you interested in a little dueling competition?”

The silence is profound.

“I’ll take that as a resounding yes. Now, the Ravenclaws have been kind enough to organize a bit of a bracket for us and all they need are warm bodies. We’ve had quite a bit of interest, but would it really be a success if you lot aren’t there?”

He slaps the list down on the table and slides it forward. No one makes a move for it.

Lupin doesn’t even seem to be listening.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” he asks with one hand covering his eyes like he can’t watch this play out before him.

“Why yes, I do,” Barty replies. He waves at Evan. “Say hi, sweetheart.”

Four heads turn their way. Evan blows them a kiss.

Lupin groans again.

“Why do you ask?” Barty grins, leaning in more. “Do you want a bite?”

“Fascinating concept, this whole duel thing,” Sirius cuts in. “You wouldn’t happen to be participating, would you Crouch?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“But of course, mate, my name’s right there.”

“Excellent.” Sirius grabs the list, crumpling it a little in the process. He scrawls his name violently. “Just wonderful. Can’t wait. James?”

The list is shoved James’s way and he drops the book he’s still holding.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Could be fun. Is this just for upperclassmen?”

“Fifth through seventh years are welcome, all others would be summarily wiped from the planet. In addition to tragic it would probably also be embarrassing.”

James signs his name, and Pettigrew signs underneath him.

Barty turns his grin on Lupin.

“Don’t disappoint me now, Lupin. After all we’ve been through.”

“If I agree to sign the bloody paper will you get the fuck off of me?”

“As you wish.” He hops off Lupin’s lap as Lupin signs the page, then he snatches it out of his hands and walks away.

“It’s been heavenly, gentlemen. Have a lovely day.”

Sirius looks like he’s trying to burn holes into Barty’s back with his eyes.

Barty falls into his seat at their table.

“Why was that weirdly effective?” Dorcas asks. She looks thoroughly intrigued, like Barty’s a rare insect she wants to study.

“I’m a natural, remember?” He looks at the paper fondly. “That was fun. I’m going to go seduce someone else to pad out this list.”

He gets up and wanders around the nearest shelf and out of sight.

“So Pandora definitely knew what she was doing when she gave him that job right?” Dorcas asks.

“Absolutely.”

“Without a doubt.”

Regulus is about to return to his notes when he catches James looking at him pointedly from his table. He makes a sort of over there motion with his head and gets up from his seat before walking into the towering stacks.

Regulus is half tempted not to follow him but doesn’t want to deal with his confused expression when he doesn’t show up.

He mutters a “Be right back” and takes the long way to get to James’s row. James is leaning against a shelf flipping idly through a book when he gets there. He looks up and smiles broadly.

“Hi.”

“Potter.”

“How are you?”

Regulus folds his arms.

“What do you want?”

James sets the book back on the shelf, in the wrong place of course, and says, “Do you know where you want to meet tonight?”

Regulus does in fact know but he’s held off telling James because he honestly can’t believe he’s sharing yet another secret with this boy. But the odds of them being disturbed there are absolutely zero, and Regulus will not risk his occlumency being discovered again under any circumstances.

So he sighs and says, “I don’t suppose you know about the Come and Go Room?”

James looks captivated.

“What’s the Come and Go Room?”

“You’ll see. Meet me in the western corridor of the seventh floor after dinner.”

“Alright.” James runs a hand through his hair.

Regulus begins to walk away but James calls his name. Why is he always doing that?

“What?”

“You look better.” He shifts his weight. “Just, less tired.”

Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that.

So he steps right in close to James whose eyes widen a bit. Regulus can feel James’s heat through his shirt and the scant centimeter between them, and his arm brushes his chest as he reaches up and grabs the book James had been looking at.

“After seven years you’d think you would know how the library works,” he says as he shoves the book back into its correct place. Then he turns and walks away before James can see his blush.

He’s not sure why he did that, but if he’s honest with himself it might have been an excuse to get closer.

*

Regulus makes it to the seventh floor corridor early. Mostly because he’d stopped eating dinner halfway through. Mostly because he’d received a letter from his mother.

It had been filled with the usual drivel about grades and family gossip. Then at the end she’d decided to drop a single sentence informing Regulus that his presence was expected at the October Death Eater meeting in three weeks.

Regulus had lost his appetite after that.

He’d let his friends read the letter and watched their faces fall accordingly. There wasn’t really much to say about it.

He’s leaning against the wall next to a suit of armor when James comes around the corner.

“You got here fast,” he says with a smile.

“So did you,” Regulus responds. By his measure, dinner is still in progress.

“Too excited, couldn’t wait. I saw you leave the Great Hall earlier and figured I should follow.” James bounces on the balls of his feet with his hands in his pockets, and is it cute? Like a little?

Regulus decides not to think about it.

“So where’s the room?” James asks and that hand is in his hair again. Maybe if he’d just leave it be it wouldn’t be such a disaster all the time.

“There.” Regulus points at the wall across from them.

He knows it’s mean, but he waits for James to turn a blank look on him.

“Am I missing something?”

“Yes.” Regulus steps forward. “The Come and Go Room only appears if you have need of it. You walk past this stretch of wall three times and then think hard about what it is you need. I’ve already done the walking so I’ll imagine a space”—he closes his eyes—"that won’t be disturbed” —he opens them and sees the beginnings of a doorway taking shape in the stone—“where we can practice occlumency.”

The door completes itself with a scrawling bit of metalwork near the handle.

James digs both hands into his hair this time, eyes wide behind his glasses.

“That’s pretty fucking incredible.” He looks to Regulus. “How did you discover this?”

Regulus stalks forward and opens the door.

“I read. A lot.” He gives James a look like Get your ass inside, and James hustles through the door. Regulus follows and shuts it behind him.

“When we meet for occlumency, just do that and picture what you need. If I’m not already there it should produce something like-”

Regulus stops.

“This.”

The room is small, what some would call cozy with a fireplace already lit, a clock on the mantle, and two soft armchairs next to it facing each other over an ornate circular rug. There is nothing between them.

The walls are lined with dark shelves that match the wood of the floors and hold nearly every title Regulus has ever read on legilimency and occlumency. For some reason there is a pitcher of water and glasses on a table in the corner.

“This is great,” James says, looking around. “So if that doesn’t work cause you’re already here, then I should just picture you?”

“What?”

James watches him patiently.

“Because I would need you?”

Regulus almost chokes.

“Um… I suppose that would work. I’ve never tried it with someone else.”

“What did you use it for?”

Becoming an animagus.

“Blood rituals.”

James whips his head up. Regulus just gives him a deadpan look.

James smiles.

“Vault theft and blood rituals. You sure know how to choose a hobby, Regulus Black.”

With the firelight and bookshelves and worn furniture, he looks warm and comfortable, fitting in a way that makes Regulus think his own rigid posture, gaunt face, and severe coloring probably leave him out of place in this peaceful little tableau.

Regulus swallows.

“You can go ahead and sit down.”

James takes the seat closer to the door, and Regulus sits down carefully across from him.

James’s brow furrows and he asks, “Why are the chairs so close together?”

Regulus sighs. Time to pay his debt.

“If I’m going to be able to teach you occlumency, I’ll have to use legilimency on you to test your progress. The success of legilimency depends on three conditions: how well you know the person, proximity, and eye contact.”

James nods slowly in comprehension.

Regulus continues, “Right now, to a legilimens, your mind is unprotected. Accessing your thoughts is as easy as wading into the surf from the beach. There’s nothing stopping me or anyone else.”

James looks appropriately concerned by that and leans back a little like the distance might stop Regulus. He snorts.

“Luckily legilimens are very rare, and most have a rather strict handle on their skill so they don’t go around accidentally violating everyone they meet. Your goal as an occlumens is multifaceted; you want to have the defenses already in place to stop a legilimens, but more importantly you want to be able to tell when a legilimens is trying to access your thoughts at all.”

“Why is that?”

“Remember when I read your thoughts on Saturday?”

“Yeah…”

“Would you have known I was doing it if I didn’t tell you?”

James considers this.

“No.”

“Exactly. Untrained legilimens are clumsy. You can feel them trying to work their way into your head. But any legilimens worth their salt will know how to get through a shield and navigate a mind without alerting their subject.”

“What is it like when you can feel it?”

Regulus huffs a breath and reaches out towards James’s consciousness. It’s even easier this time because he’s done it before and he supposes he knows James better. He makes a big show of splashing about carelessly, just through the topmost layer where he can’t do any real damage. At the same time he sees flashes of James’s thoughts: Sirius and Lupin again, school assignments, a conversation with McGonagall, a letter from his mother, a view from high up on a broomstick over the Quidditch pitch, then a view from within the stands of what Regulus thinks might have been the Saturday match, a memory.

James stiffens in his chair and blinks a few times. He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut tight.

Regulus retreats and watches his shoulders relax slowly.

“Alright, that was weird,” he says when he finally looks back at Regulus.

“That was mild. I was only in the most immediate of your thoughts. If someone were to go deeper into your mind and do what I just did they could cause you serious brain damage.”

“Lucky for me it was you then, innit?” James says leaning his head against the back of the chair.

“Lucky for you I don’t want you dead right now.”

“Aw, Reg. You say the nicest things.”

“Don’t call me that.”

James just smiles.

“So that was with no shield. How do I get one of those then?”

Regulus pulls his legs up into the chair.

“Everything you do as a legilimens or an occlumens is operating on an alternate plane, a mental plane. So there’s nothing physical you can do that will protect you other than remove yourself from the vicinity of the legilimens, and you may not always have that option.”

James looks uncomfortable at that but he’d better get used to it.

“Instead, you are using your mind to resist someone else’s, or in a legilimens’ case, you’re using it to infiltrate someone else’s. Every tool you use to do either of those things will be made up of some portion of self that you employ for that purpose.”

James gives him a confused look.

“Never mind, that’s not important right now. It will make more sense once you actually do it. Now, in order for you to keep me out, you first have to be able to find me and interact with me. I’m going to enter your thoughts again, and I want you to try to get me out.”

“How do I do that?”

“Reject me. I’ll make myself obvious. Isolate me and then kick me out. It takes a solid conviction, so determine what is you and what isn’t and focus on protecting what’s familiar.”

“Alright…” James doesn’t look too sure but he sits forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Look at me,” Regulus says. James meets his stare and his eyes play between copper and orange in the low fire.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Regulus finds his way back into the shallows of James’s thoughts. He does his best not to pay attention to them and just moves back and forth, making himself known.

For a while there’s nothing. James looks like he’s trying to think of something that he can’t quite remember, and Regulus has free reign of his mind.

The minutes tick by.

Then James squints a little. In his head there’s some response, like a breeze whipping up. It passes around his arms and legs, around his ankles where they meet the eddies of James’s thoughts, feeling out the edges of Regulus’s imposter consciousness within his own. Then all at once he’s hit with a force; the breeze solidifies into a sudden gust of wind that knocks him back to even shallower depths. Regulus regains himself but stays where he is. Another gust pushes him out to the edge so that Regulus is just hanging on, but he lets it go and settles back into himself.

James collapses in his chair and puts a hand to his forehead.

“Was that it? That was wild.”

“That was it.”

“I could feel you,” he says with astonishment. “It was amazing.”

Regulus pulls his legs in tighter, trying to crush the flipping in his stomach. “Well it’s not supposed to be amazing, Potter, you’re supposed to want me gone. And it should be much easier next time, now that you recognize the feeling. Not just with me but with anyone.”

James sits up suddenly.

“Can we try it again?”

“Are you sure? We’ve already done plenty.”

James nods vigorously.

“Yeah, just once more.”

“Okay then…”

James looks into Regulus’s eyes and Regulus takes a breath.

Back in the shallows, all is still. But just for a moment.

The now-familiar breeze rises gradually, and this time it lingers. It starts around his hands, winding between his fingers like a ribbon sliding along sensitive skin and glides down his palms. Its comfortable pressure caresses his arms, then his shoulders and swirls around his neck in a way that has Regulus tilting his head to the side. Up to his hair, it brushes through the locks and ruffles his curls, cooling him, soothing him.

Regulus sinks into it and just feels, this all-consuming awareness surrounding him. A soft attention focused on understanding his most basic form. A careful wonder indulging in the simple act of learning where he begins and ends.

At some point he can understand it too, how the breeze is James just like the shallows are, like it all is. It’s playful like him, as it tosses his hair to one side and flutters about the ends of his curls. Gentle too, around the vulnerable curve of his throat. And curious. Purely, ingenuously curious in the way it traces behind his ears and along the bridge of his nose and across his cheekbones.

Regulus lets his guard down and catches a glimpse of one overwhelming thought in the forefront of James’s mind: an image of himself where he sits across from James at that moment, with his legs tucked into the chair and a near-drunken focus on his face as he looks at James, his eyes lit from within with-

Regulus slams his eyes shut and yanks himself away from James’s mind. James flinches at the sudden absence, but he deserves it.

Regulus covers his eyes and drags his hands down his face, tries to reset bloody everything.

“Merlin, what the fuck was that?”

He drops his hands into his lap and looks at James, who is staring back dumbstruck.

“I- I don’t know-”

“You were supposed to be kicking me out for fuck’s sake!”

“I- sorry, I just wanted-”

Regulus stands abruptly and crosses the two steps between them. He shoves James’s shoulder until he’s trapped against the back of the chair then plants his other hand on the wing. He glares at James from where he towers over him and jabs a finger into his chest.

“This is not a fucking game, Potter. You either do as I say and play by the bloody rules or you get the fuck out.”

James stares at him for a moment longer then nods.

“You’re right.”

Regulus straightens and turns away. He scrubs his hands down his face again and tries to convince his heart to beat at a normal rhythm.

Behind him, James stands and steps towards him.

“Regulus, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve no idea what I’m doing. I shouldn’t just be trying things out willy-nilly.”

He feels a tentative hand on his shoulder and whips around, but James seems to realize his mistake and pulls it back.

“Here,” James says and strides over to the pitcher of water in the corner. He pours two glasses and hands one to Regulus, who takes it after a moment of hesitation.

Regulus takes a sip and closes his eyes. He can still feel the light touch of the breeze around his neck and face like a close breath.

When he opens them, James is standing before him with an anxious look about him.

“Better?”

“A bit.”

“I really am sorry.”

Regulus may regret this but he asks, “What were you even trying to do?”

James slings one hand up to rub at the back of his hair. Regulus wants to yank it down.

“Honestly, I don’t really know. It was all just so new and fascinating, and when you told me to try and feel you and find the differences between us… I just didn’t want to stop. You didn’t feel like a threat or anything just existing there at the very edges of my mind. I suppose I wanted to know more and test out using myself to do it.” He drops his hand. “It does make more sense now, what you said. About the self being a tool when you’re doing things mind to mind. It was kind of freeing.”

For a moment, Regulus is back in that closet after his first failed lessons in legilimency and occlumency as a clueless six-year-old, holed up in the dark but reveling in the sensation of being out of his own head for once, free of his body and so rife with options and directions and efficacy.

“Yeah, it can be like that,” he says quietly.

James considers him carefully.

“You know we can stop, if you’re not comfortable with this. I’ve already learned more occlumency than I ever would have in my life if not for you. I’d say we’re more than even.”

And very few people in Regulus Black’s life have ever offered him a way out.

He’s a bit stunned by the easy concession, the idea that someone can take what you offer them and say “This is plenty, thanks” and not come back for seconds and thirds and whatever more they can get. It’s unheard of, and he’s a bit offended that it’s James Potter who’s finally shown up to try to prove him wrong about people.

But Regulus doesn’t quit.

And he’d still owe a debt according to his own standards.

And he kind of maybe wants to see what else James can do if he’s already caught on so quickly.

And he’s also a bit of a masochist.

So Regulus says, “You call that occlumency?”

And James’s smile returns, slowly but surely.

Regulus isn’t sure when the goal became making James smile but he continues, “I hope you don’t plan on walking around thinking that weak effort will protect you from anything. And if you do, you’d better not credit me with teaching you. Toddlers could trip and fall into your thoughts right now.”

James laughs at that, loud and a little relieved, and Regulus can’t tell if the sound lets him breathe easier or if it stops his lungs completely.

There’s a slow dawning realization clawing its way up from the depths of his mind that makes him very glad his shields are strong enough to resist dark wizards and warm, smiling boys with messy hair alike.

“Thank you, Regulus, really,” James says as his laughter subsides. “I’ll work hard to be a credit to your instruction. I’ll make you proud.” And he looks at Regulus fondly and toys with the glass of water still in his hands.

Regulus has to get out of here.

“Sure you will,” he says. The damn room is small enough that he has to brush past James just to make it to the door.

James calls, “Transfiguration on Friday then?”

Regulus stops at the door and looks back, just once.

James stands with his hip leaned against one of the chairs, Regulus’s chair, with one long leg crossed over the other creating fluid angles of confidence and ease. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled once, and his tie is loosened a bit at the neck to allow for one open button to expose the hollow of his throat. And between the glint of reflected color on his glasses and his caramel skin and the damn orange firelight and his stupid hair, tousled like he just walked through the wind, Regulus thinks he looks like autumn come to life, vibrant and exciting and golden.

And, damn him, Regulus fucking loves autumn.

He has no words, so he just nods.

Then he steps into the hall and shuts the door behind him.

He manages to make it around a corner before he plasters himself against a wall and takes heavy breaths.

For the second time in as many weeks, Regulus can’t help but think that he is so, hopelessly fucked.

Chapter Text

All in all, James’s October is shaping up to much better than his September, which is for the best because James isn’t sure he could survive another one of those.

He still doesn’t know what words were exchanged between Sirius and Remus in the Hospital Wing after that awful full moon, but whatever was said has left them in a sort of suspended awkwardness. It’s like they’re balancing at a tipping point, either back the way they came from or forward across some yet unexplored boundary.

The good news is while they may be unsure of how to act with each other, they are for the most part back to normal when they’re all four together. The Marauders had spent the night before the first Gryffindor match up late by the light of their wands hunched over the map planning how to smuggle in the requisite amount of booze necessary to properly celebrate a win against Hufflepuff. James’s relief that weekend had been twofold, half because they had smashed Hufflepuff and half because the Marauders’ newly reacquired camaraderie had felt so welcome and so familiar that James thought he might break down into tearful confessions of love and gratitude right there. He had held himself together admirably.

The bad news is that on their own, Sirius and Remus could barely look each other in the eye. James and Peter had held more than one summit trying to work out what could possibly have shifted their adversity into something so unexpected and incomprehensible.

“What if, and hear me out,” Peter had said while they’d been digging up fireweed in the greenhouses for their anti-corrosive potion, “They just bloody talked to each other.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pete, that would be much too simple.”

“I don’t understand,” he had whined. “They were practically cuddling in the Hospital Wing. I thought that was it, they’d finally sorted themselves out but now this? I mean what even is this?”

“My bet? They’d been a comfort for each other in an emotionally difficult time for both of them and then silently agreed to never speak of it again the next day.”

Peter had looked like he was about to turn violent. It wasn’t a look James was comfortable being around when he was also holding gardening shears.

“Look, mate. It’s not for us to interfere with, painful as it may be. They’ve still got a few weeks.”

Peter gave James a knowing look. Neither of them had forgotten the consequences of unresolved emotional trauma on a full moon night; he doubted they would ever forget. But Sirius deserved one more chance to set things right, and if he needed a kick in the ass before the next full, James was a more than willing foot.

Transfiguration practices with Regulus were also going swimmingly, James had been happy to inform Professor McGonagall when she’d asked. She had looked slightly smug at that, but by James’s count she had more than earned the right to walk around looking smug for the rest of her life if she so pleased.

As much as Regulus pushed back against the idea that James was teaching him anything, he was also kind of right. The things Regulus wanted to know how to do had their foundations in what James had learned but quickly evolved beyond his experience. They had spent more than one session sitting with their heads bent together by the lamplight working out how to capture the depth and specific angles of a marquise sapphire, something James had not been aware existed until Regulus gave him a flat look and rattled off at least eight different ways to cut precious gems.

Every day he becomes less and less sure that Regulus was joking about the vault robbery.

But he was a bit surprised by the progress they made, how well they seemed to work together. James had left their most recent session reevaluating just what kind of preconceptions of Regulus Black he had walked into this with. Of course, he had known him as the concept of Sirius’s brother and from what little observation he had conducted in the last few months of sixth year, both of which painted a picture with large, unmistakable BEWARE signs. He was a bit like those venomous creatures with their colors and hypnotizing patterns, drawing you in with a beauty unmatched in the natural world only for you to realize too late their capacity to kill you with ease. James thinks that maybe he’s got this comparison wrong though because the colors and patterns are actually supposed to warn you off; he’d always found them captivating.

There’s also what James knows of Regulus’s friends, a group of people so eclectic and off-putting he’s sure they’ve prevented him from approaching Regulus more than once, even if just subconsciously. Barty Crouch Jr. might have been enough on his own; that boy has several screws loose and doesn’t bother to hide it. It comforts James not at all that he scored a full twelve OWLS last year and brushed off the accomplishment with a disinterest so complete it couldn’t have been faked. He will admit, however, that his professed interest in Remus and absolute lack of boundaries is rather hilarious. James wonders if he can pay Crouch to make another move on Moony in front of Sirius and if that might be enough to solve all his problems. He might even do it for free.

He's also a bit impressed with his open and unashamed relationship with Rosier. There’s another scary one for you. James has witnessed Evan Rosier look Professor Slughorn in the eye and lie for seven minutes straight about the tragic and untimely death of his aunt at the hands of her House Elf to get out of a potions essay. And it had been good. There were details, ones James wishes he could forget about but simply can’t. He’d even heard that Professor Slughorn sent flowers to the Rosier family with his deepest condolences.

Then of course there’s Dorcas Meadowes. He’s held a few friendly conversations with her about Quidditch and likes her well enough, all the more for the competition she provides as a rather tenacious Chaser with the Slytherin team. He’s been looking forward to seeing if the rumors about her are true at the upcoming duel.

And sometimes Pandora Rosier hangs around with them too. James assumes that as Evan’s cousin it doesn’t matter so much that she’s a Ravenclaw. They’re all a bit protective of her, but it’s entirely unnecessary. She’s a notorious experimenter from what he’s heard, and James is of the opinion that if she hasn’t blown herself up yet, it’s likely nothing can kill her.

So there’s the cadre of fiends that Regulus surrounds himself with that might have reinforced James’s idea of Regulus as dangerous and unreachable. And dangerous he most certainly is, but unreachable? James isn’t so sure.

After meeting multiple times per week for almost a month now, James is learning things about Regulus that he wishes he’d known sooner. The flying and Quidditch prowess were obvious to anyone with eyes, but he hadn’t known how Regulus doesn’t actually put that much stock in his own talents and hard work. He treats them like an incidental part of himself and then, just when you think he must suffer from some severe lack of self-esteem, that cocky grin will make its appearance and remind you he’s well aware of his own competency. James lives for those moments.

He's also funny, which James was not expecting at all. Not like Sirius’s outlandish, boisterous immersion in humor but something close to the opposite. He can hold a straight face like no one James has ever seen (minus Rosier) and volley back and forth with James saying some of the most shocking and scathing things he’s ever heard in his life (if James can derail him long enough to access his sarcasm, that is). It doesn’t help that he’s fucking brilliant. Like James is smart but Regulus is smart. James finds himself trying to keep up with half the things Regulus suggests during Transfiguration.

If it’s up to him though, James prefers their time working on occlumency. It’s hard and exhausting but so unlike anything he’s done before that he feels kind of addicted to it. In the cozy confines of the Come and Go Room (another secret of Regulus’s that had stunned James out of words upon its reveal), Regulus has guided James through the very basics of occlumency, showing him capabilities of his own mind that James wasn’t even aware of. He’s a surprisingly good teacher too, going slowly and carefully, good at explaining things, always willing to indulge James’s curiosity when the questions aren’t personal.

James is working on that.

He’s painfully aware of just how close he was to fucking this whole thing up during their first lesson, and he still can’t quite figure out what went wrong. The incredible joy of stretching his mind in new directions had overcome him, and when he’d located that little piece of Regulus in his own thoughts, he hadn’t felt damaging or unwelcome to James’s psyche.

Instead it was more like being shown how to open your eyes for the first time and the first thing you see being the very person who had revealed your sight to you. The natural instinct was to reach out, to examine how you look in relation to them, how they look with you suddenly added into the mix, to map out lines and boundaries and equate what you could feel with what you could suddenly see.

Apparently that had been wrong, though, because Regulus had promptly pinned James to his chair and threatened him soundly. James sometimes thinks about that cornered animal look in his eyes and how frozen he’d felt with Regulus looming over him like that.

But he’d fixed it, and Regulus had been forgiving enough to continue their lessons, and James has been so very conscientious since then.

James could sense Regulus’s presence in his mind as easily as watching him walk into a room now, could push him out with one stiff gale of concentrated willpower, and had even managed to surprise Regulus by maneuvering him towards and away from different thoughts. That one had been a bit of a gamble on James’s part, another instance of him following that instinct that guided his way with magic. But it had worked beautifully and was quite worth it in James’s opinion when he got to see what Regulus Black looked like when he wasn’t in complete control of the situation. James likes to think that in addition to shocked and unamused, he might have also looked a bit impressed for about half a second.

They had progressed from the basic awareness drills into what Regulus had termed ‘prescient defenses’; James thought that this phrase was a bit too fanciful for what they were actually doing.

They had already practiced something called ‘making space.’ The goal was to make it harder for Regulus to reach James’s immediate thoughts by putting James at a sort of psychological removal from the world. In theory, Regulus would have to traverse a greater ‘distance’ to reach him, exert more effort bridging the gap between their minds instead of just stepping in. This would be accomplished by James working to distance himself from his surroundings and the immediate present.

James, unsurprisingly, was no good at it.

“Have you never even once tried to just step away from the world for a moment?” Regulus had huffed after James’s fourth failed attempt to conjure up any kind of distance.

“No! Not really, why would I?”

Regulus had raised one smooth eyebrow at that.

“Well, okay maybe more recently I gave it a try with… limited success,” he said, thinking of his first measly attempt at alone time on top of the Astronomy Tower.

Regulus groaned, “That’s right. I’d forgotten you’re allergic to solitude.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

James had gotten it eventually, a little sliver of distance and Regulus looking like he was holding himself back from impaling James with the fire poker. James had promised to practice.

At their lesson yesterday, Regulus had begun to spell out the mechanics of actually producing a mental shield.

“You need a wall,” he’d said, sitting upright and imperious with his legs crossed in his armchair.

“Pardon?”

“You’ve learned to recognize an imposter and access the parts of your mind and magic that are capable of ejecting it, and you’ve finally, painstakingly put a little bit of distance”—James rolled his eyes at Regulus’s exaggeration but couldn’t help the smile drawn out by his theatrics—"between yourself and a potential legilimens. But now you need to know how to prevent one from getting in. So we’re going to use that space you created to construct a wall.”

“Okay…”

“Think of it like a kind of medieval battlement. Your mind is the palace-”

“Right you are.”

“And shabby and decrepit as it may be-”

“Hey-”

“You need fortifications to protect it. Every castle has a wall surrounding it that stops the enemy from getting in straight away. The enemy in turn brings tools and devices to try to get past the wall. The wall then has its own countermeasures against the enemy’s tools. Following?”

“Yes?”

“Now imagine all that but the enemy is invisible.”

“Oh, Merlin.” James had slouched in his own chair. He had forgotten about the invisible part. Regulus liked to periodically remind him that every time James had interacted with Regulus’s consciousness, it was only because Regulus had let him. He’d done a lot in recent weeks to quell James’s ego.

Regulus had just smiled then, but James hitched himself back up and refocused. No way was he going to let Regulus think he’d given up.

“So how do we do that. Is it literally just like a mental wall?”

“It can be,” Regulus had tilted his head. “At its most basic, sure. But the more clever and abstract and misleading you can make it, the better it will work.”

James was feeling a bit apprehensive about the direction this was going in. He’d never been any good at subterfuge, much preferring a direct approach whenever possible. Regulus must have seen his uncertainty though and backtracked.

“You don’t need to worry about that yet. Today we’ll just work on the actual repellant part of the whole wall thing.”

And there was another thing about Regulus that James had learned; for how competent and controlling and clearly in his element he was, he made an effort not to discourage James or dissuade him from his progress. Sure, he could be short and had an endless well of insults to throw James’s way (and James possessed what some might call an excess of self-esteem so it’s not like he couldn’t take a little extra ribbing), but Regulus was careful never to cross the line into belittlement or rebuke.

Sometimes during their lessons, he even seemed to enjoy himself. He so clearly loved working in the mental plane, and James wondered if he’d ever had someone to share this with. Privately, he hypothesized that Regulus had spent so long under the instruction of people who had done their best to criticize his mistakes and abuse his passions that he felt the boundary between a tough teacher and a tyrant keenly and stayed far to one side of it.

James had been a little floored when he realized this, another addition to the ever-growing respect he had for Regulus Black. He had joked about making Regulus proud at the end of their first lesson, but it was beginning to feel real.

They’d spent the rest of the lesson reshaping the gale force James had developed to push Regulus out of his mind into a sort of constant border. It took more concentration than James had expected, the kind his frenetic mind was not really suited for, but Regulus had assured him it would become easier with time and practice. By the end, there was a kind of wispy perimeter that separated his thoughts from Regulus.

There was a brief reverberation that caught his attention, like a tap at the perimeter from some inquisitive visitor.

“Did you feel that?” Regulus asked, still meeting his eyes.

“Yes.”

Regulus’s mouth crooked a little, almost a satisfied smile if he’d just let it be one.

“Good. That’s what it feels like now when I try to get in.”

James had sat up straighter at that.

“So you can’t get in now? I’ve kept you out?”

Regulus had snorted.

“Not quite. This is barely a sheet separating us. I could tear through it in a second if I was actually trying to.”

“Do it.”

“James-”

“Could it damage my brain?”

Regulus had looked unamused at that question but answered honestly: “Likely not. It’s not big enough, hasn’t taken enough of your energy or focus or magic to actually cause damage.”

“Then do it,” James insisted. “I want to know what an actual attack feels like.”

Regulus unfolded his leg and put his feet on the floor.

He looked uneasy as he said, “It will probably hurt a bit.”

“That’s alright.” At his continued hesitance, James said, “I’ll have to find out eventually, right? Better it be you.”

Regulus had sighed at that but nodded. Honestly his caution was kind of sweet. James liked knowing that Regulus Black wasn’t someone who was careless with other people.

They had settled in their seats and locked eyes again. In James’s mind, his thoughts lapped against the thin boundary that he had produced to stand between him and the rest of the hostile world.

Then James saw a sort of formless, blurry shadow from the other side of his shield as if he were looking through panes of fogged glass. The shadow grew and grew as it approached.

Then-

James lurched back into his seat and shut his eyes as a battering ram slammed into his meager shield and smashed it with such force that James felt it running along his skull and pressing against the back of his eyes.

“Godric’s bloody balls-“

“James? Are you alright?”

James cradled his head with both hands in an attempt to get it to stop throbbing. He blinked a few times to see Regulus standing in front of him with his hands frozen where they had been reaching to… to do something. Regulus seemed to realize this at the same time and snatched them back. He looked around the little room and stepped away to pour water before bringing a glass back to James.

“Here,” he said, handing it to him. “Drink it all.”

Regulus somehow managed to come off concerned and bossy at the same time, and if James weren’t currently trying to clear the ringing from his ears he might laugh at that.

The water did help, and Regulus even filled it for him again.

From where he stood over James as he drained the second glass, his anxiety was palpable. James found it very endearing.

He set the empty glass on the floor and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes and let the darkness wipe away the rest of the ache.

“Okay,” he said after a few minutes. “That sucks.”

And then his eyes sprung open just in time to catch the tail end of Regulus’s breathy laugh.

“Yeah,” he said. His hands fiddled with the looping silver ring on his pointer finger. “It does.”

That of course raised all kinds of questions in James’s mind, but he was a bit too knocked out at the moment to go head to head with Regulus in search of answers.

“So,” James had said instead, “There’s some work to be done.”

Regulus sat down carefully on the very edge of his chair like he wasn’t sure if he’d have to spring up in a moment to catch James if he started melting onto the floor. Again, endearing.

“There is,” he agreed. “I shouldn’t have started so hard. If it makes you feel better, the last time that happened to me I threw up in a plant afterward.”

James’s head had popped up at that, debilitating headache or no. That was a surprising confession on two counts: first, because Regulus had just freely admitted to a moment of weakness at all, and second, because he had used the words “the last time,” as if he went around taking psychological beatings every other weekend. Who was attacking a sixteen-year-old’s mind with such recklessness that they made him physically ill? Somehow, James must have still had it in him to summon rage on Regulus’s behalf because he felt it building up in his chest.

Regulus must have realized his slip because his eyes widened a bit and he cut James off before he could speak.

“That’s obviously only one way—and one of the most direct ways—that a legilimens can target your shield, but you can design shields so that they resist some attacks more readily than others.”

James of course saw the attempt to redirect their conversation but let it slide because he knew Regulus would shut down otherwise.

“What do you mean by design?”

Regulus looked more comfortable with this direction. “Every occlumens’ shield is different. You build it over time and test what you can put towards fortifying it. The end result is completely unique to the creator and only they know how it works.”

This had piqued James’s interest.

“Really? What kinds of shields have you seen?”

Regulus blew out a breath and searched his memory.

“Not too many. A rather uncreative one that responded a bit like metal. It would only have dented from a blow like the one I dealt you but it was rather susceptible to a kind of drilling force. Not all that useful.

“Then there was this one that was more like… snow and ice. Thick enough to withstand a direct hit, but the trick there was emotion. You could melt your way through with directed feeling. They all have their tricks.”

James was hooked. He wanted to hear about another dozen shields Regulus had encountered. Come to think of it, he wanted to hear about where and how Regulus had come into contact with them. He thought he could listen to Regulus talk about it for hours, especially with how interested he seemed, but there was something else he wanted to know more.

“What’s your shield like?”

Regulus had looked up at that.

“Mine?” James thought his face had reddened a little, but then he said, “And what makes you think I’d tell you that, James? And give away my own advantage?”

James should have felt disappointment.

Instead there was a minor explosion going off in some corner of his brain at the sound of Regulus finally, finally saying his name.

He didn’t bark it in one short syllable like Sirius did or flatten it like Remus did. Instead he took a little extra time with it, lingering just a bit on the a and softening the j and the s. James quite liked it. It was worth the wait.

He had enough common sense not to say that though. Instead he dragged his sluggish train of thought back to their conversation and said, “Fine, I can understand how it might concern you to know that I have that information. Given how effortless this whole occlumency thing is for me it wouldn’t surprise me if I picked up legilimency on a fluke.”

Regulus had snorted at that, but the knowing smile lingered so James considered it a win.

“How do I know what my shield is supposed to be?”

“You don’t,” Regulus replied. “You’ll have to test it a bit as you build it, try out different things until you find what feels right. Whatever form it ends up taking will be something that makes a sort of sense to you because in essence it will be you.”

Now that had sounded like something to look forward to. His very own shield, a representation of him that would protect him at the same time. There was something poetic in there.

“I want you to practice the basic shield until the next time we meet,” Regulus said. “Just putting some time towards it is the best way to strengthen it. Once its more solid, then you can work on individualizing it. I’ll be able to test your progress and update you on how effective it is then.”

James nodded, but his easy agreement snagged on one part of what Regulus had mentioned.

“Now, hold on.”

Regulus looked at him expectantly.

“If you’re there for the whole process of me building my own shield, then you’ll know exactly how it works by the time it’s done, is that right?”

Regulus had smirked a bit.

“Well I would have to pick up on anything you’re able to accomplish between our lessons but other than that, yes. You’ll end up being a rather open book to me.”

James didn’t have any particular issue with that; he had already decided somewhere along the line that he trusted Regulus, enough to let him near his thoughts and guide him through this potentially dangerous process. And he still didn’t mind the sensation of Regulus inside his head, a small, unobtrusive presence that almost felt like company at times.

But he wasn’t above giving Regulus a hard time about a double standard.

“Alright, how is that fair? That you get to know every little thing about my shield and I don’t even get to know what yours is like?” James tossed a hand gesturing vaguely towards Regulus’s head.

“The simple answer is it’s not,” Regulus said standing from his chair.

He gathered his bag and started towards the door but stopped next to where James sat. His long ring-clad fingers skimmed the arm of his chair and played with a loose thread in the fabric next to where James’s elbow rested. James followed the graceful line of his arm all the way up to his face, set in contemplation.

James had learned that it was best to give Regulus the chance to think things through thoroughly rather than pushing him to say anything, allowing him the courtesy to let his mind work in all its different directions. He didn’t mind taking the time to study him; James always thought he looked better by firelight, his pale skin and crafted angles providing a tempered canvas for the play of colors and shadows. The white of his complexion versus the raven black of his hair always captured the hues of the fire differently than James expected.

Then Regulus said, “Although…” and James snapped back to attention.

“If you were to produce a fully-formed, unique shield by the holidays, I suppose I could describe mine to you.” He looked James in the eye and gave a little shrug. “In the spirit of fairness.”

James was more than pleased with this compromise. He hadn’t expected to get anything out of Regulus on this front.

“Then I look forward to it.”

“Don’t,” Regulus said, pulling his hand away and readjusting his bag on his shoulder. “Because it’s not going to happen. That’s a bit less than two months you have to turn this pathetic little sheet into something that could hypothetically keep me out.”

He walked the rest of the way to the door, but James saw the smirk he was fighting.

Regulus knew James loved a challenge. He knew exactly what he was doing.

James just said, “We’ll see,” as Regulus walked out the door.

He was alone and his head still kind of hurt, but James had a project and a timeline.

And an incentive.

He was still smiling when he left.

In the 24 hours that have passed between that exchange and now, James has spent more than his fair share of time staring off at blank walls or out windows completely lost to the task of practicing his shield. It’s a bit harder without Regulus there to snap at him what he’s doing wrong or to test along the edges, but James thinks he’s making progress. He knows he is every time Sirius has to poke him in the ribs to get his attention.

Now it’s evening and James is jogging up the spiral stairs to the owlery to send off a letter for his parents. He thinks about seeking out the cat at the Astronomy Tower and spending a quiet hour with it reading through another chapter of the star book, but he had promised to play Peter in chess later and he’s got patrol that night.

When he rounds the corner he stops abruptly. Regulus is there writing the finishing lines of a letter against the windowsill. The thick autumn sunlight highlights his rings as his hand works the quill. James has a moment to think that it makes him look expensive, almost royal before Regulus signs his name and folds the letter.

“Are you here for a purpose, James, or are you just going to stare at me?”

James jumps a little at the sudden address and runs his hand through his hair.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I could sense your shield,” he says as he seals the envelope and turns towards James. He’s outfitted in a tight green Slytherin sweater and his hair is a bit messier than usual. From the flush on his face, James would bet that he’s just come from Quidditch practice. He looks natural this high up, this close to the sky.

“Also you’re very loud on the steps.”

“Oh.”

“But you’ve been working on the shield.”

“That I have,” James responds and bounces on his toes a little. He’s thrilled it’s already that obvious.

Regulus looks him up and down and says, “May I?”

For a second James has no idea what he could mean. He still says “Sure,” but then Regulus looks him in the eyes and he feels a gentle brush like fingertips dragging along the outside of his shield. It sends a shiver down James’s spine and right back up when Regulus smirks and says, “Not bad.”

James lets out a breath.

“Glad you approve.”

Regulus turns back to the envelope on the windowsill and writes a name on the front. James steps up beside him and rests his elbows on the ledge. The grounds are peaceful at this hour with the sky reflecting off the still Black Lake and the occasional pop of orange from a tree turning in the Forbidden Forest.

James glances at the letter in Regulus’s hands and sees the name Walburga Black in slanted cursive script. Regulus notices his stare and flips the letter over, smile fading. James supposes even just the name written is enough to dampen any moment.

Regulus clears his throat slightly and asks, “How are your parents?”

James is stunned by the question even though he’s holding the letter addressed to his own mother and father in plain sight. They’ve never spoken about anything beyond the purview of their Transfiguration and occlumency lessons, despite James’s many attempts to push conversation in a friendly direction. He would have thought that family was completely off the table, given what he knew of the Black household, but he supposes his own is a perfectly pleasant topic. He’s just surprised Regulus cares enough to ask.

But James ruffles the hair at the back of his head and says, “Yeah, they’re great. They keep very busy. I think they’ve got more of a social life than I do.”

Regulus smiles a bit at that and it spurs James on.

“Really, I know they love holidays when they get to have us home, but from the sounds of it we’re the ones cramping their style when we’re there. Like they have to shoo us out the door so they can get back to their masses of adoring friends and dinner parties.”

The ‘we’ and ‘us’ that includes Sirius but excludes Regulus feels dangerous to toss around in his presence, but Regulus has started to snicker so James keeps going.

“I’m this close to making shit up so that my life sounds more exciting than theirs. I mean honestly, aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be having formative experiences and indulging in my youth and whatnot? Instead I hear that my dad’s won an all-expenses-paid trip to Patagonia from some potion brewing competition and my mum can’t decide which hiking boots to pack. I didn’t even know the woman had multiple pairs!”

Regulus is full on laughing now. James allows the moment to stretch out, watching how Regulus’s face transforms when he lets his guard down. His smile is as sharp as the rest of his features, but he closes his eyes when he laughs. With the black curls flopping forward and the way he ducks his head a bit, it makes him look so young. Or maybe he just looks sixteen and all the other times James is tricked into thinking he’s older and more austere than he really is.

Regulus is still chuckling when he says, “So what have you got this time then? If you’re going to outdo your own parents?”

“Well, I haven’t resorted to lying. Yet.” He looks out of the corner of his eye to catch Regulus’s subdued grin. “I’ve informed them of the duel tomorrow, promised to fight in their honor and all that.” James hits the letter against his palm a few times then thinks to ask, “Are you participating?”

“Hmm, no.”

“Why not? I’d think this would be right up your alley.”

“What are you trying to say, James?” Regulus quirked an eyebrow and turned so his body was facing him.

James shrugged with a feigned innocence.

“I just wouldn’t have expected you to pass up an opportunity to knock people off their feet. Or show off.”

Regulus snorts.

“True as that may be you will have to suffer the injustice of missing that particular scene. I’ve already had to take my name off the list twice. Barty insists on roping me in.”

He hasn’t answered the question, but James lets it go. Just another piece of the inscrutable depths of Regulus Black that he’ll have to save for later.

“Well then, you can root for me with no conflict of interest.” James gives him his best charming smile.

“Hardly. I’d rather back a winning horse, thank you very much.”

James puts a hand to his chest.

“Excuse me, I’ll have you know I am an excellent dueler.”

“Better than Dorcas?”

“Um.” James honestly doesn’t know but her reputation makes him pause. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to see.”

Regulus shakes his head.

“I can tell you right now you’re not.”

“Alright, well the vote of confidence is much appreciated.”

“I think you’ve got plenty of confidence for the both of us, earned or otherwise.”

James chuckles at that, and for a moment the two of them just stand there together looking out over the rolling lawn and the sky fading into deeper shades of pink and purple and it feels like something friends would do. Are they friends? James thinks that if he asks Regulus he would deny it profusely so he doesn’t. It doesn’t change the fact that they’re sharing the sunset in each other’s willing company.

But then Regulus takes one last look at the letter in his hands and sighs. He turns away and summons a grey owl from one of the higher nooks.

James wonders what it must be like, to dread writing to your own parents. And not for the first time he tries to imagine how Regulus lives at home. It can’t be as bad as it was for Sirius or he would have left with him when he asked. The Black brothers haven’t always hated each other; that’s why it hurt so much when Sirius left without Regulus.

But James has also learned a good bit about not making assumptions over the last two months, about people, about things you don’t and can’t possibly know. He thinks that maybe Regulus has his reasons for staying. He thinks maybe he could stay and still have wanted to go when Sirius had asked. It doesn’t leave James with a very good feeling about the whole thing.

Regulus sends the bird off and turns back to James.

“I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I suppose you will.”

“Getting your ass kicked at length.”

“Putting in a respectable showing and walking away with the awe and compliments of my peers.”

“It’s quite sad that they’re allowing someone with your severe delusions to participate in such a dangerous activity. Maybe we’ve damaged your brain after all.”

“For your information, my brain has been and always will be this damaged.”

Regulus smiles again, and in the twilight his grey eyes stand out, like this is the time of day he’s meant to be viewed in.

Then he says, “Goodnight, James,” and turns the corner into the stairwell.

James watches him go and says, “Goodnight,” to a room of sleepy birds.

*

Dorcas Meadowes, James decides, has no business being this good at dueling. He settles on this conclusion when Marlene goes flying all the way to the other end of the long stage erected in the Great Hall and lands with a heavy thud.

From where they stand in the crowd James, Remus, Peter, Sirius, and Mary all flinch in unison.

Professor Venicella ends the duel and declares Dorcas the victor. This is the fifth consecutive round she’s won.

The Great Hall has been transformed into a sort of viewing grounds for the rest of the school to circulate around three massive raised catwalks on which different duels are taking place. Preliminary rounds are hosted on the outer two while the middle is reserved for showdown matches between those who have had already won a round. It easily garners the most attention; James has to admit that at least half of that is because of Meadowes.

James is pleased to say that he’s won three rounds so far, taking two sixth-year Ravenclaws and a seventh-year Hufflepuff out of the running. Sirius and Remus have both advanced past two duels, and Sirius is waiting for his turn to go head to head with Crouch. Remus just rolled his eyes at that. Mary had also dueled three times but lost her third match to Benjy Fenwick, something she did not take lightly.

Peter had been unfortunate enough to face off against Dorcas in his second round and had been beaten soundly. But he’d taken it well and shook her hand before jumping off the stage and seeking out Lily to heal a nasty stinging jinx lingering on his neck. Lily had volunteered to help Madame Pomfrey with the slew of minor injuries that resulted from each duel. James applauds her forethought because Madame Pomfrey looks like she’d seconds away from losing her mind.

They make their way through the crowd to collect Marlene at the far end of the stage. James becomes a bit concerned when he sees the glazed look in her eyes as she stumbles down the steps. Sirius and Remus catch her between them just as her left leg buckles from the remnants of a jellylegs jinx.

He becomes even more concerned when she tosses her hair back and announces, “Boys, I’m in love.”

The four of them trade looks between them.

“Um, what was that, Marls?”

Marlene now has a rather infatuated, far-away smile on her face and cranes her head over her shoulder searching for something.

“Did you see the same thing I saw?”

“You getting tossed head over ass on the business end of Meadowes’s wand?” Sirius suggests.

“Yes. That. Exactly.” She grins wider. “What a woman.”

Peter leans into James a whispers, “Do you think she hit her head?”

James whispers back, “I’m not sure it would matter if she did.”

They make their way back to Mary who looks between the Marauders like it’s their fault Marlene has hearts for eyes and can’t stop talking about how Meadowes’s locks had flipped over her shoulder when she’d sent a vicious stunning spell down the line.

“Look at that. She’s broken.” Mary folds her arms and appraises Marlene.

“Yeah, I think we’ve lost her for the rest of the day,” Peter says. He puts a secure arm around Marlene’s shoulder and turns her towards the back of the hall. “You know who hasn’t heard about Dorcas’s fierce wand work, Marls? Lily! I bet she’d just love a recap of all the nasty spells she aimed at your noggin.” Peter steers Marlene through the crowd as Marlene begins to say something about a particularly beautiful deflection spell Dorcas had used against her.

“Chances she’ll forget about that by tomorrow?” Mary asks the group.

“Less than zero,” comes a voice from behind them.

The four of them whirl around to the serene smile and small form of Pandora Rosier. With her cloud of platinum waves and dangling earrings that look suspiciously like astrolabes, Pandora is a bit of a shock wherever she goes. But she’s plenty kind to everyone she meets, and James has respect for anyone who’s willing to walk around that unabashedly themselves.

“Afternoon, Pandora,” Remus says, and they all echo the sentiment.

“To you as well,” she replies. “How are you all enjoying the festivities?”

“This whole thing was a wicked idea,” Sirius says. “Was it yours?”

Pandora smiles brighter and nods.

“Mine and a few others’. We thought it’d be fun.”

“Well, I’m having a blast,” James adds. “Will we be seeing you duel, Pandora?”

“Oh no, I don’t believe in violence.”

There’s a bit of a pause after that comment as the Gryffindors watch a fifth-year Slytherin receive a substantial welt on the side of his face.

“Really?”

Pandora nods gently and then looks to one of the far catwalks.

“I do believe it’s about Reggie’s turn,” she says absently. “Come along.”

Both James and Sirius blurt out, “What?” and rush to follow Pandora accompanied by Remus and Mary.

James spots Regulus leaning against the wall with Crouch and Rosier watching the previous duel wind to a close. He’s surprised to see Regulus more relaxed for once, with the sleeves of his black sweater pushed up to just below his elbows where he grips his arms with ringed fingers. James finds it only slightly maddening that he manages to make dressed down look elegant.

Then Professor Osiris consults a list and calls Benjy Fenwick and Regulus to the stage. Regulus’s eyes widen and he turns on Crouch who’s making no effort to hide his devilish grin.

James hears Regulus curse and say, “For fuck’s sake, Barty! How many times did I-”

“Too many, it was exhausting,” Crouch interrupts. “I had to sneak your name onto the list last minute and rearrange the whole bracket. Now get up there, I’ve earned this.”

He gives Regulus a shove and Regulus stumbles towards the steps. He casts one last glare in Barty’s direction and marches up to the catwalk.

Benjy is already standing at the other end sizing Regulus up. He’s got his own crowd of fans, mostly sixth and seventh-year girls following him from duel to duel, and James has to admit he’s had quite a run so far. Winning this one would put him ahead of Dorcas in terms of total wins, and Benjy doesn’t look too worried.

Beside James, Mary scoffs.

“This better be good. I’m sorry, Sirius, I don’t know the etiquette around rooting for a close friend’s estranged little brother in a duel but this one’s personal. It would ease my troubled mind to watch Regulus hand him his ass.”

To James’s left, Sirius looks like he also doesn’t know the etiquette around rooting for a close friend’s estranged little brother in a duel. His brow is furrowed and his mouth hangs slightly open. He mostly just seems nervous about the whole thing. James moves a step closer and brushes his shoulder with his own.

James also finds himself a bit nervous, at least that’s what he thinks the squirming feeling in his stomach is all about. Regulus didn’t even want to do this, but James can’t help his own intense curiosity as he braces himself for the next few minutes.

On the stage, Benjy and Regulus have met in the middle and drawn their wands. They bow to each other and walk back to their respective ends. James looks for signs of fear on Regulus’s face, but he just looks resigned. Resigned and pissed.

The crowd around the catwalk stills and holds its breath for the opening move. Behind them the other two duels proceed as usual.

Benjy casts first to no one’s surprise.

It’s a quick succession of stunners interspersed with the occasional expelliarmus in an attempt to sneak one past Regulus’s shield and push him back. Regulus bats them aside with ease, eyes locked on Benjy.

He’s staring at him so intently that if James didn’t know better, he might think he’s trying to read Benjy’s mind.

Good thing he knows better then.

James knows Regulus considers legilimency much too refined an art to use it for something as low as cheating at a duel.

No, if James had to guess, he would say Regulus is studying.

He remembers what Regulus had said at their last lesson about mental shields, “They all have their tricks.” Remembers how, when given the time to think something through, Regulus always has an answer.

James can feel a slow grin creeping onto his face. 

Benjy has retreated for a moment, watching Regulus with suspicion where he stands and patiently waits for his attack to resume. James can tell that Benjy is caught off guard by Regulus not taking this opening to go on the offensive.

He strikes again with a renewed fervor, throwing in the occasional curse between his barrage of stuns and freezes. Regulus throws them off without a shift in his expression. At one point, James sees Regulus’s eyes narrow and watches as he lowers his wand just slightly and allows a single hex through his rock-solid shields. A thin slice of red appears along his forearm where the hex glances off. He makes a show of studying the drip of blood traveling towards his sleeve and glances up to catch Benjy’s excitement.

Next to James, Mary mutters, “Come on, Baby Black, put this twat in the ground.”

James kind of wants to tell her what he thinks is coming but also kind of wants to see her face at the end. He decides to wait.

On the catwalk, the duel has picked up again, Benjy fires off spell after spell, encouraged by his hit. Regulus continues to block but also fires spells of his own every once in a while. He aims for Benjy’s feet like he’s trying to trip him up. None of them hit, but they’ve got Benjy sort of weaving back and forth to avoid them. James recognizes Regulus building a pattern, getting Benjy to anticipate his next move.

Then, Regulus drops the act.

He shoots a minor combustive spell near Benjy’s feet, but this one goes off with a loud CRACK, and Benjy jumps at the sudden noise. Regulus takes the opportunity to send a flare towards his face. It flashes bright, and the crowd around Benjy’s side shield their eyes from the light. James wants to applaud; the flare isn’t a hex or a curse so Benjy’s shields don’t protect him from it. Benjy is still trying to blink sight back into his eyes when Regulus makes his killing move.

James swears the floor shakes a bit as Regulus first crouches and reaches down with his wand and then pulls it over his head as he stands again. In response, the stage groans and rears up in front of him like the crest of a wave. Regulus snaps his wand down and sends the wave rushing all the way down the catwalk straight towards Benjy with a loud rumble as the wood shifts like liquid.

James hears Sirius let out an ecstatic “Yes!” as the wave reaches Benjy and throws him off his feet.

Regulus isn’t done yet though.

He’s already sending a faintly yellow curse low along the settled wood of the stage before Benjy even lands. When he falls back to the catwalk, Benjy finds himself sinking into the wood like quicksand. He struggles against it with real panic on his face, but he doesn’t stop until the platform reaches his chest and Regulus cuts it off.

A quick disarming spell, and it’s over. Regulus even catches Benjy’s wand in his hand.

There’s a note of silence and then more than half the crowd goes wild. Rosier is shaking Crouch by the shoulders as he cackles madly. Remus swears profusely in Welsh and finishes it off with “Bloody hell, that was a bit fucking scary.” Mary is whistling between her fingers and shouts “Eat dirt, Fenwick!” towards where Benjy is still trapped chest-deep in the catwalk. Sirius has covered his mouth with his hands and hasn’t moved.

James jumps a little when Pandora appears at his shoulder.

She looks up at him with dark blue eyes and says, “He’s quite impressive, isn’t he?”

James has to work on remembering words to say, “Yeah. Yeah, that was…” but it seems that those are all the words he has. Pandora just smiles knowingly and glides off towards Crouch and Rosier.

James watches as Regulus takes the steps down from the catwalk and is promptly grabbed by Crouch and kissed full on the mouth. Rosier yanks Crouch away by the shoulder only to step in and kiss Regulus himself. Regulus shoves him in the chest and wipes a hand over his mouth, though he accepts a hug from Pandora. James badly wants to go over there, wants to pull Regulus away from his friends and congratulate him and prattle on about how fucking incredible those spells were but he can’t. Not without incurring a whole bunch of questions he has no answers to.

He thinks briefly about speeding through an explanation to Sirius while he’s catatonic like this and then rushing off to talk to Regulus but shuts that thought down. He’d promised Regulus this would remain a secret and the idea of betraying that trust, of the look on Regulus’s face, makes his chest hurt.

So he settles for staring at Regulus like a stalker until Regulus finds his gaze through the crowd. At the sight of James’s grin, which he’s sure is way too big and goofy by now, he gives James a look like Oh you’ve got to be kidding me and James responds by fanning his face with his hand and miming a swoon.

Regulus narrows his eyes at him and James feels a sharp rap against the outside of his mental shields. James laughs at the sensation, more than a bit elated that they seem to have developed their own little private language, limited as it may be. Regulus Black is something else.

“James!”

James whirls around to find Remus looking at him oddly. Sirius is next to him waiting for his attention.

He points back to the middle stage and says, “Remus is up next.”

“Right.” He shakes himself a bit and follows their group back to the stage and away from Regulus.

The rest of the tournament goes rather quickly from there.

Sirius gets his revenge on Crouch, though Crouch doesn’t look too put out when he bounces down the stairs to Rosier, who grabs his hand and licks the blood from his knuckles. James looks to Remus to see if he witnessed that rather charged exchange, but he’s too busy staring at Sirius. James rolls his eyes and smiles to himself.

Remus gets the opportunity to put Snape away, and it’s a rather ugly duel. The spells get progressively darker and there are injuries on both sides until some quick thinking on Remus’s part has Snape fending off aggressive flocks of songbirds while Remus freezes his feet in place. Snape torches the birds into ash, but Remus snatches his wand before he can make another move. James thinks he could burst out into song as Remus wipes blood from his nose and tosses Snape’s wand on the table. Sirius, he concludes from his dark eyes and tense grip on his arms, is thinking of doing something very different.

Regulus is also working his way through opponents, taking down Mulciber with an ease that’s almost embarrassing and an assortment of other years and houses along the way. James tries not to make it too obvious that he’s watching and casts silent predictions about when and how Regulus is going to strike. He’s getting pretty good at reading him.

Then it’s James’s turn to go up against the woman herself, Dorcas Meadowes. He’s pretty sure he knows how this one is going to end but he jogs up the stairs to the pats and well wishes of his friends with the same enthusiasm as any other duel. Marlene has rejoined their group along with Lily as the duels dwindle into the final rounds, and James thinks he hears her yell “Hex his ass to Sommerset!” He chooses not to take that personally.

Dueling Dorcas Meadowes is thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. She’s got a bank of unusual spells a mile long and no mercy. James is on his toes from the first exchange and on his back by the last. He’s going to be feeling a few of those for at least a week, but he climbs to his feet and shakes her hand and tells her they’ll have to sort out their differences on the Quidditch pitch. She laughs at that and says she’d be happy to chat whenever he feels like being humbled again. James quite likes her.

He stumbles down the steps to his friends with a groan.

Sirius pulls him into a hug and says, “Poor Prongs. Bested by a Slytherin. You’ll be the shame of our household.”

“Just you wait until you’ve got to duel her. I’ll be kind and won’t tell Mum and Dad all the gory details.”

James looks over Sirius’s shoulder and finds Marlene.

“You have my blessing, by the way. I think it’s best if you marry her and quick.”

Marlene grins and rolls her eyes.

“Thank Merlin! What would I have done if some berk I’m not related to and whose opinion I don’t give a damn about didn’t approve of my taste in women? You’d better watch yourself or I’ll seat you in the back at the wedding.”

James shoves Sirius aside and gasps.

“You said you’d make me a flower boy!”

Marlene shrugs and examines her nails.

“I can’t imagine my future wife would like that attitude and what she says goes.”

Remus rubs his eyes and adds, “Maybe you should inform your future wife of her place in all this before you buy rings, Marls.”

Marlene just pats his shoulder.

“Baby steps, Lupin,” she says as if she hadn’t just planned a third of their wedding party.

By some miracle, the Black brothers don’t end up pitted against each other, an eventuality that might have cost James some hours of sleep if he’d known Regulus was going to be participating before today. That does mean that Sirius and Remus find themselves at opposite ends of the catwalk. James and Peter hold onto each other the whole time while Lily stands next to them with her arms tucked in and one hand covering her mouth. Mary and Marlene seem to have no idea how to navigate the whole thing, and Marlene resorts to shouting encouragement along the lines of “Just have fun!”

The duel starts out tentative, but Moony doesn’t seem to be in the mood to tolerate concessions. He aims a hex under Sirius’s shield that leaves a mottled bruise climbing up his wrist. Sirius grins and then it begins in earnest.

The whole crowd of spectators has gathered to follow the exchange between the two Marauders, and James takes a moment to appreciate just how Sirius and Remus must look up there to everyone else, two people with reputations larger than themselves raised above the masses locked in a volley of spells and completely unable to wipe the smiles off their faces.

Of all things the duel turns rather playful, mischievous and creative like both of James’s friends. They know each other too well to stick with the mundane spells for long and have to resort to more unconventional ones to get the drop on each other. By the end, Sirius’s hair has come loose from its bun and flies around his face while he tries to dodge Remus’s attacks. Remus is out of breath but still smiling as he whips a nearby pile of papers into a vortex to surround Sirius. He’s advancing towards him down the stage and trips Sirius up with another spell aimed at his feet. Sirius catches himself on his elbow and just barely manages to slip his wand through the whirlwind of papers and freeze Remus in place with a simple petrifying charm. The papers halt in their swirl and flutter to the table as Sirius drags himself to his feet and limps the rest of the way across the catwalk to where Remus struggles to throw off the spell. Sirius gets right up in his space, much closer than necessary. Marlene and Mary trade a knowing look with each other as Sirius gazes up at Remus with a smirk and plucks his wand out of his fingers.

The crowd cheers and applauds and Sirius unfreezes Moony with his own wand before holding it out to him. Remus takes it slowly, and Sirius’s grin fades a little. But then Remus’s face cracks in two with the force of his smile and he musses Sirius’s hair up as he yelps and ducks to the side. The two step off the stage side by side.

Peter promptly throws his arms around both of them and says something that might be “I thought you were going to kill each other!” James laughs and claps for what really was an excellent duel. If the results are always this productive, James thinks they should fight each other more often.

Regulus’s duel with Dorcas is the darker twin to Moony and Padfoot’s. They’re well-matched; between Dorcas’s spontaneity and Regulus’s unpredictability, they have each other cornered. Regulus can’t use his usual wait-and-see strategy with Dorcas because she doesn’t stick to a pattern, but Dorcas can’t rely on her usual set of shields with Regulus because he’s too good at making use of his surroundings. The two have matching wicked grins and more than a few scratches traded between them by the time Dorcas claws out a victory. Regulus wipes a drip of blood off his cheek and says something to Dorcas too quiet for James to hear as he shakes her hand and jumps off the catwalk.

Then comes the final match between Sirius and Dorcas. Sirius is practically crackling with excitement while Dorcas just stands her ground with cool patience. From the first spell, the crowd is in for a treat. The stone walls and the sky shifting to evening above them pick up the flashes of their spells. James has known all along what kind of power Sirius harbors, but it’s another thing entirely to watch the force of his hexes actually crack through Dorcas’s shields. Dorcas, in turn, rises to the occasion like she evolves to match the threat of her opponent. James isn’t sure he can keep up with who’s sending out which colors at times and has to track the progress by Sirius’s hair blown back from the force of an explosion or Dorcas ducking to avoid a spell that sails over her shoulder.

In the end, Dorcas sends a coil of rope past flying past Sirius where he dodges out of the way. He redirects his attention to her only for the rope to boomerang back towards him and snap around his legs from behind, pulling him to the ground. Dorcas wastes no time relieving him of his wand. She raises it over her head to the screaming approval of the crowd. From where he lays on his back at the other end of the stage, Sirius covers his face with his hands and laughs. Then he yanks the rope off and bounds to his feet.

They shake hands and exchange words and Sirius jumps off the stage into the waiting arms of his friends. James hugs him tightly while someone else screams, “That was fucking mental!” James passes him off to the girls and catches sight of Pandora riding on Rosier’s shoulders. She’s grinning and smacks a kiss to Dorcas’s cheek where she crouches down on the stage. Behind them, Regulus stands with his arms folded and a satisfied smirk. James pulls his eyes away before they can linger too long.

Eventually the students are shooed out of the Great Hall so that it can be restored to its usual state in time for dinner. Dorcas receives a very public and very hearty congratulations from Dumbledore before the meal to instate her as the inaugural champion of Hogwarts’ first Annual Dueling Tournament. Down the Gryffindor table, Marlene wolf whistles with absolutely no compunction.

They’re all too riled up to settle into their usual sedate stupor after dinner, so the common room becomes a bit of an impromptu party, bottles of butterbeer appearing from trunks and the old record player floating down the stairwell from the Marauders’ dorm followed by a trail of records. An hour in, Marlene is well on her way to sloshed and talking nonstop about finding a way into what is surely a raging Slytherin party in the dungeons to track down one particular girl. Mary and Lily do their best to quell her more ludicrous plans. Lily looks to where James, Peter, Sirius, and Remus have all piled onto the couch together with an alarmed expression that plainly calls for backup.

“I’ve got this one,” Peter says as he jumps up and squeezes through the dance floor in their direction.

Sirius tilts sideways and throws his head in Moony’s lap and his feet in James’s with his usual lack of regard for personal space. Remus, already tipsy and satisfied with the lineup of Bowie records he’s charmed to play automatically without interference from those with “inferior music taste,” is about as content as he gets. He smiles indulgently and sinks his fingers into Sirius’s hair. If James isn’t mistaken, Sirius might purr a bit at that.

“Why haven’t any of us come up with something like that before?” he asks, gesturing with his bottle. “I thought we were supposed to be clever.”

“We’re plenty clever, Pads, it’s just usually we devote our cleverness to acts of evil rather than good,” James responds.

“Well I like to think that was a lovely blend of good and evil,” Sirius says as he closes his eyes. “Some of those matches were just brilliant. Who knew Reggie could duel like that?”

James and Remus trade a startled look over Sirius. He must be deeper into it than they’d thought if he’s willing to say his brother’s name, much less bring him up in conversation. James takes evasive maneuvers immediately.

“Who knew you could duel like that, mate? You and Moony both, that was one for the books.”

Sirius’s grin stretches wide as he looks up at Remus with an adoring expression.

“We do make a pretty good team, huh Moons?”

Remus looks like he’s about to choke but huffs and says, “I don’t know if you missed the point of that little altercation but we were very much not a team at the moment.”

Sirius’s brow furrows.

“No, but imagine how good we’d be if we were. If we’re that good against each other just think how good we’d be together.”

James isn’t sure he’s talking about duels anymore and from the look on his face, neither is Remus. But he just pats Sirius’s head and goes back to scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Right you are, Pads.”

Sirius seems satisfied with that, and for a while they just gaze at each other. It kind of makes James want to smash his head into the table or shove their faces together so he figures it’s a good time to excuse himself.

He lifts Sirius’s legs off his lap and replaces them on the sofa before ducking out of the portrait hole and setting off down the stairs.

He’s not really sure where he’s going, the pleasant haze of alcohol lightening his head on his shoulders and steering him around random corners. He doesn’t realize where his subconscious has taken him until he’s staring up the steep steps of the Astronomy Tower. And he’s already come this far so he might as well finish the job.

It’s much later than it usually is when he makes it up to the atrium, and the shadows are different, fuller. But silhouetted in the middle of their arch sitting neatly on their usual column like a finely carved stone ornament is the cat. James feels his grin almost too big for his face and strides out to meet it.

“Good evening, your highness,” he says as he draws up next to it and slants a hip against the iron railing.

The cat turns and looks him up and down then tilts its head.

James takes a chance and gets a bit closer so he can plant an elbow on the column next to the cat.

“Sorry, I forgot the book tonight, didn’t really know I was headed here. Instead I brought”—he looks down and only now realizes he’s still holding his bottle—“this.”

The cat stares at him like Good for you, that’s real helpful.

“Do cats like butterbeer?” he wonders aloud.

The cat narrows its eyes in a very clear No.

James finds this funny for some reason.

“Merlin it’s been a while since we’ve had one of these chats.” He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t believe the week I’ve had.”

The cat gives him a long look before picking up one black paw and placing it right over a purple bruise on his forearm, courtesy of his duel with Dorcas. It’s about to be an incredibly sweet gesture until the cat leans its weight on the paw and presses into the bruise.

“Ow,” James complains, even though he kind of finds this funny too. “What did I do to deserve that?”

The cat takes its paw back and gives its head a quick shake.

Somewhere in the alcohol-soaked depths of James’s brain, some disparate threads are weaving together to make connections that he would never consider sober. Some of the cat’s gestures and looks and mannerisms are awfully familiar.

Then James thinks he’s spent quite a bit of time in towers this year, more than usual, and his mind jumps to the last time he was in a tower, the owlery with Regulus where they’d stood side by side, much like he’s doing now with the cat, and enjoyed the evening together. James had wondered if they were friends then, and he’s still wondering now. He wonders if he’s friends with the cat at this point.

“Are we friends?” he asks it. The cat whips its head towards him and pins him with those sharp silver eyes.

“Actually, never mind. Your opinion on the matter isn’t going to change anything. I’ve already decided we’re friends and I am simply informing you as a professional courtesy,” James states plainly.

The cat stares at him for another minute and James holds its gaze. Then it huffs out a little breath that James interprets as acquiescence.

He stands there smiling stupidly big into the night next to an apathetic cat and it’s sort of amazing.

A new idea, an awesome, out-of-this-world good idea sneaks into the forefront of his mind, so loud and insistent that James bets Regulus can probably read it all the way down in the dungeons.

He turns back to the cat and says, “Hey, to observe this momentous occasion, what do you say…”

The cat is watching him warily.

“… you let me pet you?”

The cat looks away sharply and James rushes to clarify, “Just once! As a token of mutual good faith! I promise not to abuse the privilege.”

The cat glares at him out of the corner of its eye and swishes its tail hanging over the edge of the column.

James sighs.

“That’s a no, then.”

He looks back out over the grounds shifted into shades of blue and darker blue and tries not to feel too disappointed. It was a long shot anyway.

The stars above them are plentiful but not the best he’s seen with the interference from the moonlight. Waxing gibbous, if James remembers correctly. The full is approaching next week.

Just then he feels a brush of something so smooth it’s almost not even there and looks down to see the cat nudge the top of its head along the backs of James’s fingers where they rest on the column. He’s so surprised his other hand slackens and the butterbeer bottle falls out of his grip. The two of them lean over the rail to watch it sail down at least a dozen stories and disappear in the dark before it reaches the ground.

“Whoops.”

James might worry that Filch has some way of tracking the source of illicit alcohol bottles if he wasn’t already so worried about having missed his one and only chance to pet this damn cat. He’s not sure why it feels so important all of the sudden, but he can’t have been staring off into space when the cat made its first and so far only move to initiate amiable contact between them.

James lifts his hand slowly so the cat has time to see what he’s doing. It watches him closely but doesn’t make a move. James drags the back of one tentative finger between the cat’s ears and holds his breath.

The cat’s ears twitch.

He takes his chances and does it again with two fingers. This time the cat closes its eyes and leans into his hand a little. James can’t help the incredulous breathy laugh at this purely cat-like reaction.

He pets it one more time down its neck and simultaneously tries to pummel his brain into capturing and storing every detail of this moment in one crystalized memory. Then he takes his hand back, well aware he’s gotten more than he deserves tonight.

They stay there for another few minutes, James grinning, the cat perfectly still, and almost everything his inebriated brain could hope for suspended between them.

Chapter Text

The full moon is in two days.

Sirius has not yet taken the time to finally fix whatever it is between him and Remus.

James and Peter have resorted to drastic measures.

Drastic measures include but are not limited to: a frantic note to James’s parents, Peter’s near crisis state at breakfast yesterday where Lily had to talk him down from hyperventilating over his porridge, James cornering Sirius and threatening to lock him in a broom cupboard with Remus until they sorted their shit out, Peter briefly considering a look into voodoo magic because “This would all be so much easier if we could just stick two dolls together and let them figure it out.”

James had talked Peter out of that last one and they had instead settled on a different plan. They had coordinated with their friends the day before the scheduled Hogsmeade trip and secured their solemn oaths to avoid Sirius and Remus like dragonpox for all of Saturday. James and Peter would stick with Mary and Lily. They had a laundry list of ready excuses should Sirius and Remus try to join up with them.

Marlene hadn’t even let them finish their explanations before she was waving them off and declaring that she wouldn’t want to hang out with Sirius and Remus even if she were allowed. This was because, she told them with no small amount of self-satisfaction, she was already going on a date with Dorcas.

James was impressed. At this rate there might actually be an wedding at the end of the year.

Saturday morning they all bundle up before heading down to the entry hall. Sirius in his leather jacket, Remus somehow managing to produce an even larger, baggier sweater to throw over his already large and baggy turtleneck, and Peter in a hoodie that Mary and Lily had gotten for him for his birthday last year. They had tried to explain how muggles were incredibly fond of them, but Peter had struggled with the concept of the hood with drawstrings for many months until he’d fallen asleep with the hood up one night and never looked back. James shrugs into the denim jacket with fleece lining that had stopped him dead in his tracks when Sirius had dragged him into a muggle thrift store over the summer. He was beginning to understand Sirius’s philosophy on the fundamental value of owning a very cool jacket.

The weather had waffled a bit in the second week of October, slipping between pleasantly warm and pleasantly cool for a number of days before it cut the act and plunged into the reliable cold and crisp of wind of true autumn. James was ecstatic; weather like this always makes him feel as if something’s about to happen, something exciting.

As the main doors groan open and the mass of students begin herding their way out of the castle and down the hill, James and Peter lengthen their strides to catch up with Mary and Lily. Behind them Sirius calls out for them to wait, but James yells back, “Sorry, we’ve got plans, can’t keep the girls waiting, you go on without us,” at the same time that Peter yells back, “Actually, we don’t really like you all that much, stay the fuck away from us.”

James catches the confused look exchanged between Remus and Sirius before he trots back to Peter.

“All good so far?” Lily asks him when he slows beside them.

“With luck,” James responds and runs a hand through his hair.

His relationship with Lily has been admittedly tumultuous and fueled largely by stupidity for the majority of its existence, all on his account. It had taken a very difficult conversation at the beginning of their fifth year for James to open his eyes and consider that just maybe the world might not revolve around him all the time.

Lily had snapped after one of his more public attempts to ask her out and dragged him into a classroom to explain (yell) that she was not interested in him and she was not interested in boys and she shouldn’t have to have told James that very private piece of information to get him to back the fuck off because it doesn’t matter who she’s interested in if she doesn’t want what she doesn’t want.

Then she’d stormed out and left James to slowly crumble under the crushing weight of his guilt.

He’d been miserable for a solid week after that. It wasn’t Lily’s firm and final rejection—after all his years of antics, that had barely even registered with him—but rather the fact that he had been so willfully blind to the damage he was causing her that he’d pushed her up to and right over a line that he had no right to make her cross. That wasn’t the kind of person he was, wasn’t the kind of person he wanted to be.

So, like he did when anything in his life slipped its foundations, he wrote to his mother. Her reply had been stern but forgiving; she agreed that the things he’d done were the actions of a person much less thoughtful and compassionate than she knew him to be but that they didn’t make him into that kind of person if he didn’t let them.

James had spent the last two days of his Week of Misery planning out his apology to Lily. When he’d asked her if she would spare him a moment to talk, she’d agreed and they sat together under the tree by the Black Lake for over an hour. She even seemed charmed when he pulled out his multi-page List of Things James Potter Royally Fucked Up With Regards to One Lily Evans Years 1971-1975. Remus, after reaming James out in more than one language for “idiocy of the highest fucking caliber,” had advised him that if there was any way to get into Lily’s good graces, it was a well-organized set of notes.

And James had apologized, profusely and genuinely, and Lily had forgiven him. She’d admitted that she wouldn’t have told James anything about her sexuality if she didn’t think he could be trusted with it, which had made James feel an odd mix of pride and affection in the swill of all his guilt; it had made him want to be the kind of person who deserved her trust. He had insisted that she keep the List and frame it to hang up in the common room, but she had only agreed to keep it if she didn’t have to frame it but was allowed to reference it whenever James crept back towards one of the 49 numbered items of reprehensible behaviors he had sworn off cold turkey.

(In the beginning it wasn’t that uncommon to see Lily Evans pull out a well-worn stack of papers and dictate something along the lines of “Number 33: James assumes he knows what is best for others and/or everyone without considering what they might have to say on the matter,” followed by James Potter springing up from the common room sofa or the library or the Great Hall to sprint a lap around the school grounds as penance. These occasions had thankfully lessened as James had internalized his own resolutions, but he got in some good cardio for a while.)

James had discovered that day that he was quite adept at apologizing, a skill he hoped not to have to use too often in situations as shameful as the one he had created but a good one to have all the same. He had learned a lot more than that too: how to think through his actions more carefully before deciding on anything rash, what it felt like to do the harder work of forgiving yourself after obtaining someone else’s forgiveness, and what a valuable, wickedly funny, relentlessly kind friend Lily Evans could be when she wasn’t being accosted by self-important berks who couldn’t see past their own egos.

They have two years of solid friendship behind them at this point, a very platonic friendship that had at first confused the entire school, but they had shrugged that off and even laughed about it with each other. Lily drags James to the library to host Head-Boy-Head-Girl study sessions that James actually quite enjoys. James had listened when Lily got drunk last November and spilled her guts about the trials of having to share a dorm with Mary MacDonald when one wants to kiss her senseless. And they’d both been there to pick up the pieces of Sirius and Remus after the Prank last year, Lily with a bit less context but just as much care.

Sometimes James finds it hard to believe he had just overlooked this prime demonstration of unconditional love walking around his school for the past six years.

But they’re well past the point where their history trips them up, and James has missed the time spent with the girls while he’s been too bogged down in the Sirius&Remus problem. Just another thing he hopes to rectify today.

James and Peter have submitted themselves to the role of sherpas, gathering bags and packages that Mary and Lily pick up around Hogsmeade while they complete their Christmas shopping, an idea that strikes James as quite ingenious. The Marauders, James included, tend to favor the mad dash for gifts in mid-December when exams conclude and they collectively realize they have a scant week to find and procure thoughtful presents for everyone they love.

Peter carries Mary’s bags and walks ahead with her while Lily and James argue over what might be considered a gift for Mary that “embodies years of nurtured admiration and affection but doesn’t come off as desperate or gauche.” James replies that if she discovers such a gift he would like to please know immediately.

After they complete their shopping they file into the Three Broomsticks for butterbeer and apple cider. James makes a show of dragging four heavy glass mugs to their table without spilling a drop. Peter cheers and Mary tells him to do five next time and maybe she’ll be impressed and Lily laughs. James takes a moment of completely unwarranted pride in himself that he’s chosen such stellar friends over the years.

While the rest of them chat, James leans back in his chair and scans through the crowd. He’s an avid people watcher when he gets the chance, and the Three Broomsticks provides ample material.

At one table, Pandora sits with a cup of tea and gazes serenely at Benjy Fenwick who seems to be arguing some point or other. When he pauses to take a breath Pandora says something that ends with a smile and Benjy stares at her with a look of utter confusion on his face.

At another table, James spots Rosier, Crouch, and Regulus bent together over a piece of paper next to an open book that James is pretty sure isn’t supposed to leave the castle. As always, his eyes are drawn to Regulus. He looks stressed and determined and tired again with his curls tangled between slim fingers while the other hand taps a quill thoughtfully against the paper. He shakes his head at something Crouch says and offers a response that sets Rosier writing. James can’t help but wonder what they’re up to; it sure doesn’t look like homework and he doesn’t exactly like the idea of what those three minds together can come up with for an independent project.

He drags his eyes away before his gaze goes from looking to staring and catches sight of Remus and Sirius sitting across a booth from each other. Bickering again.

James has just about had it.

He’s about to go over and stage a long-overdue intervention with mediation tactics he has no qualifications for when Remus stands abruptly and pushes his way through the crowd of students and out the door. Sirius looks like he’s about to follow but just slumps in his seat and watches him go like the sad dog he is.

“You saw that then?” Lily asks James.

“Yeah, I saw.”

“Maybe you should go talk to him.”

James nods and gathers his patience.

He sits down in the seat Remus had just vacated and looks Sirius in the eye, waiting. He doesn’t have to say anything.

Sirius drags both hands through his hair and sighs. James has technically seen him at more hopeless points in his life, but this one is definitely up there.

“Sirius.”

“James.”

“Sirius.”

“James, I don’t know-”

“Sirius.”

Sirius shuts up.

James holds his gaze as he says slowly and clearly, “You have,”—he checks the clock on the wall—“less than 28 hours to fix this before something very bad happens to someone you love very much.”

Sirius looks rather sick at that statement.

“James, I don’t know what to do. How come it seems like all we’re able to do is argue?” He throws his hands up like he’s giving up a fight.

That is not an option.

James leans forward.

“With love, Pads, all you two ever do is argue. You have since the day you met and it’s never been a problem before. You’re great at it, it works for you. So why don’t you get off your ass and go argue with him about something that’s actually meaningful instead of whatever bullshit you keep dredging up to avoid what is so painfully obvious to everyone else.”

Then James sits back and lets his words drain through Sirius’s thick skull and into his brain. He watches the emotions cross Sirius’s face, from defensive to resigned to dejected to thoughtful to determined to resolved, a sequence James knows well on his best friend’s features.

When Sirius meets his eyes again, he’s made a decision. The same one he tries to make every day since the Prank: not to let the people he loves get hurt because of him.

James offers, as he always will.

“Do you need my help?”

Sirius shakes his head and stands.

“No. No, I’ll get this. See you this evening.”

He shuffles out of the booth but stops as he pulls his leather jacket on.

“Oh, and tell Lily that Mary’s been very into enchanted jewelry recently. I’ve got magazines she can look through later.”

Then he waves at Rosmerta and strides into the cold October wind.

James watches his back disappear as the door closes. There’s never been anyone quite like Sirius Black.

James returns to his table under the careful eyes of Mary, Lily, and Peter. He ignores them and asks what everyone’s holiday plans are looking like.

They spend another hour chatting and laughing in the warmth of the pub before the early onset of evening turns the light sepia around four. Then they trek back up to the castle together while Mary and Lily regale them with details Marlene has planned out for future dates with Dorcas that she seems to be deadly serious about. Apparently the most important foundations of any relationship according Marlene depend on “bagging someone who can kick your ass six ways to Sunday and look good while doing it.”

James finds this to be a rather sound and pleasingly simple philosophy.

When they return, Peter stays in the common room to help Mary and Lily sort through their shopping while James bounds up the stairs to the dorm to drop his jacket.

He’s stepped through the door and is about to shut it with his usual carelessness when he notices the silence that makes itself rather unignorable.

Then he looks towards the only lamp lit in the entire room and has to slap a hand over his mouth to stop a delighted squeal from slipping out.

On Remus’s bed by the window, Sirius half sits half lays on top of the blankets and pillows. He’s got one hand tangled in Moony’s hair and the other cradling his shoulders and gripping his sweater. Remus is on his stomach stretched out at Sirius’s side, half his face buried against Sirius’s stomach and his arms wrapped around his waist, sound asleep. Their legs and socked feet are woven together and Sirius is gazing down at Remus with such a careful intensity that James is sure he’s only ever seen its equivalent in oil paintings.

James is about to pull the quietest, most considerate exit of his life when Sirius notices him standing frozen in the doorway. They stare at each other for a moment, sharing a silent communication that goes like James asking Are you-? and Sirius smiling slow and sweet and besotted.

James takes a moment to hang his head and kind of jump in place a little before he rushes over to Sirius’s side on exaggerated tiptoes and kneels by the bed.

Sirius puts a finger to his lips.

“He’s tired,” he whispers and James nods. Moony loses a lot of energy on full-moon adjacent days.

“What did you do?” he whispers back.

Sirius grins ruefully.

“We argued.”

“Yeah?” James can’t help but grin back. Sirius’s happiness does that to him. “Who won?”

“I did.” Sirius says proudly. “No doubt.”

They sit in silence for a moment and Sirius brushes his fingers through Remus’s hair again.

“I told him… I told him I was sorry, that I would never stop being sorry even though he forgave me. That I couldn’t even come up with something that would be worth losing him from my life. I told him that he could have me however he wanted me, whether that was as some distant acquaintance who only sends him a depressing Christmas card every year or as his personal House Elf for the rest of time but that I couldn’t stomach his apathy.”

James is unbelievably proud of his best friend, his brother.

“But then I told him how I’d like him to have me, if it were a perfect world and I got my way even though I don’t deserve it. And he seemed rather okay with that.”

James smiles wider and nods slowly.

“Yeah. I think he wants that too.” He pats Sirius’s arm and stands up. “You did good, Pads.”

But Sirius doesn’t need to be told that with Moony in his arms.

James creeps over to his trunk and shucks off his jacket. He’s changing his shirt when the door opens again and Peter freezes in the doorway, almost the exact mirror to James’s reaction less than five minutes ago.

He looks between Remus’s bed and James, then back to the bed, then back to James.

Peter grips the door handle with white knuckles and whispers into the room, “Is it over?”

Sirius grins, clearly trying to keep from laughing so he doesn’t disrupt Remus’s sleep, and James nods.

“Yeah, Wormtail. It’s over.”

Peter covers his mouth and what might be a genuine sob and sits down on the floor right there.

“Oh thank fucking Merlin.”

James can’t help the laughter at that. Neither can Sirius as Peter covers his eyes and rests his elbows on his knees. Remus shifts in his sleep and holds Sirius tighter.

Peter points one finger in their direction. “Don’t you ever do anything this colossally stupid ever again.”

“We won’t, Peter.”

“Or if you do, at least have the decency to expedite it.”

“Alright,” Sirius agrees through a chuckle.

Peter sighs and picks himself up. He closes the door quietly and shuffles over to flop face first on his bed.

“Don’t any of you idiots wake me until dinner.” And with that, he spells his curtains closed.

James and Sirius exchange a look and go back to their respective efforts to not laugh.

James lays down on his own bed and folds his hands on his stomach. With the fading evening light and the sounds of deep breathing, he finds it very easy to close his eyes and smile into the space above him.

He’s missed this, the quiet, the contentedness and the safety and laziness in a little bit of excess time found for the four of them to do absolutely nothing together.

*

The next night, Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs bound into the Forbidden Forest, guided by the light of the full moon.

They race each other, Padfoot darting forward and circling back, Moony and Prongs galloping along side by side, Wormtail tucked into the peaks of Prongs’ antlers, until the underbrush gives way to a carpet of moss, the marker of the deep forest, and the behemoth trees tower up like mountains and shape the ground into hills and valleys.

Moony and Padfoot pounce on each other and try to outsmart Wormtail as he ducks into holes and under roots. Prongs spooks when he accidentally sticks his snout into a foxhole.

As the stars chart their course across the sky and the moon tilts towards the horizon, Moony settles down onto the moss. Padfoot steps into the space between his paws and lays against his stomach, and Moony curls himself around him.

They drift off to sleep together while Prongs rests on a ridge above and keeps watch. Wormtail darts in and out of sight.

In the morning, Sirius, Peter, and James crash onto their beds exhausted and sore. Later they’ll eat breakfast from the kitchens. Then they’ll shower and dress and march down to the Hospital Wing to visit Remus.

For now they’ll sleep, and it’s easy, and James dreams of the deep green moss, soft and forgiving, dappled with peaceful shadows stretched out under watery silver moonlight.

*

Halloween is something like the official holiday of Gryffindor Tower.

Over the past six years, the Marauders have trained Gryffindors young and old to expect a no-holds-barred, overly indulgent, wildly impractical party of excessive scale on the night of October 31^st as a way of capitalizing on the Halloween excitement and marrying it with the manufactured excitement of Sirius’s birthday three days later.

This year’s Halloween/Sirius-Black-Has-Turned-18-Motherfuckers (self-titled) party is no different.

If anything it’s better. Or worse, depending on your perspective.

It’s one of their last chances to leave a mark on the tower and this House and this school. Sirius and Remus have finally, finally fallen into the disgustingly public romance of their dreams, and everyone is ready for a celebration to remember.

What they are not ready for, respectively:

1. Remus, completely unprepared for Sirius to jump on a table at 11:24 pm and sing a rather risqué interpretation of “Good Old-Fashioned Loverboy” while wearing Moony’s favorite sweater, even though he was the one who gifted it to him for his birthday. (James thinks this might have been something of a self-serving gift, but Sirius sure didn’t seem to mind. And anyway Remus is paying for it now as the wide neck slips off Sirius’s shoulder when he rolls them back and twists his hips.)
2. Marlene, speechless, maybe catatonic when Dorcas Meadowes slips through the portrait hole dressed in a skin-tight pink shift covered in fake blood that James vaguely recognizes from some popular muggle horror film.
3. Peter, unaware that the bottle of specially brewed enchanted alcohol he had snuck out of his parents’ liquor cabinet before the school year and saved for this occasion specifically is a rather priceless batch of Lithuanian Golden Squash Meade aged for 400 years in a naiad pond. He describes the experience as “the worst thing he’s ever had in his mouth” and promptly downs another shot of it before describing to James a number of colors he’s pretty sure don’t fall within the visible light spectrum.
4. Sirius, James, Peter, Mary, Lily, Marlene, but especially Sirius, slack-jawed and more than a bit delighted when Remus reaches a point of alcohol consumption that unlocks a previously undiscovered ability to dance and look bloody good while doing it. He catches the eye of nearly everyone in the room at some point during his smooth, seductive sway to some heady beat, eyes closed and drink in hand. Sirius has to elbow his way through the crowd and press up against him for reasons that James assumes have as much to do with possessiveness as they do with uncontrollable lust.
5. Literally everybody, in no way ready for Pandora Rosier to crop up some time after midnight and start applying rather talented face paints to willing subjects that then morph to consume their whole faces and change their features into horrifying renditions of dragons, banshees, inferi, and creatures James can’t even put names to. There’s more than one shriek in the common room as one friend turns to find another transformed into some monster that then cackles at them when they spill their drink.

James is on a different plane, laughing with his friends, dancing with the girls, grateful for once that Sirius and Remus insist on playing the same rotation of records day in and day out for all the songs that he can now sing word for word, even if he can’t carry a tune in a bucket. At some point, someone charms his glasses to look like Elton John’s, and James thinks he could get used to seeing the world through rose-colored lenses all the time.

Everything feels narrowed down to this tight space, one euphoric room with absolutely everything James could possibly need crammed into it. No looming war, no uncertain future, no outside world. Just the best people he’s ever met and the best music he’s ever heard and- okay not the best alcohol, but after four drinks he doesn’t even notice.

The party slows down around 2 in the morning. Students from other Houses trip out the portrait hole and prepare to make the harrowing journey to their common rooms. Dorcas and Marlene have disappeared and James does not think about that any further. Lily is sprawled on the couch with her head in Mary’s lap and Peter snoozes on the floor by the fire. Remus and Sirius are wrapped up in each other, slow dancing to their own tune in their own little world.

James has acquired a number of Elton John related accessories; after the initial glasses transformation, people seem to have decided it was their job to dress him up accordingly. He sheds a pink feather boa and a blindingly bedazzled belt while Pandora is kind enough to transfigure his glasses back to normal. He offers to walk her back to Ravenclaw Tower while she gathers her paints.

On the way there they talk about her experiments and however much James has had to drink seems to be the right amount to hold an engaging conversation with a sober Pandora. She’s a fascinating person, brilliant far beyond James’s comprehension, tipsy or otherwise, but in a way that is completely detached from her own ego.

She answers some riddle that has James’s head hurting and waves a cheerful goodbye before disappearing into the tower. He sticks his hands in his pockets and wanders back down the stairs.

He can feel the alcohol losing its edge and tipping him into a more sedate happiness on his way back to Gryffindor Tower, and he begins to plan how he’s going to persuade Peter up the stairs and into his bed.

He’s considering levitation when he hears a noise in the corridor and stops. James looks around, but there’s no one there. He waits for a second and there it is again, what sounds like a wet cough. James turns in the direction it came from and finds himself face to face with a girls’ lavatory.

He briefly considers that this would be a much more appropriate job for Lily but there really is no helping that. Not when she’s properly drunk and all the way in the tower and more likely to gut him for taking her away from Mary.

So James pulls himself up straight and makes sure his wand is in the pocket of his jeans. Then he knocks on the door and presses in close to listen.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Are you alright?” he asks, but there’s still no response.

He takes a breath and pushes the door open slowly.

James sticks his head in first and asks, “Do you mind if I come in?”

He hears another cough and decides he’d better sort this out.

The moonlight streaming through a few high-up windows paints the bathroom tile sea blue. James looks around the porcelain sinks and rows of stalls and sees nothing amiss. All the taps are off, all the stall doors are open.

“Hello?” James calls again, and there’s a rustle from one of the stalls.

James ducks his head a bit to see underneath and spots a pile of cloth and a pair of feet in black boots.

He walks slowly towards the stall, not wanting to frighten whoever it is, and asks, “Hey, is it alright if I come in? Do you need help?”

He receives no answer.

The stall door is slightly ajar, and James pushes it gently. It creaks on its hinges and reveals a crumpled figure in well-made, embroidered robes such a deep shade of green they could be mistaken for black. A dark head of hair rests against arms folded on the seat of the toilet, and from the sleeves James catches a glint of silver adorning elegant fingers.

“Regulus?” James blurts. He pushes the door the rest of the way open and squeezes into the stall. When Regulus doesn’t respond, he kneels down beside him and says his name again.

This close, James can see that he’s shaking. He’s been sick in the toilet and his hand occasionally clenches into a fist before unfurling again.

James reaches out and rests one hand on his shoulder causing him to flinch back so violently he slams into the wall behind him.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” but James cuts off at the sight of Regulus’s face.

James has never seen Regulus any less than perfectly arranged and maintained, stitched up tight in his posture and bearing and impeccable control. Even when he was visibly tired, he wore it like it was something he chose to put on that day.

It’s like taking off a glamor, to look at him now. His face is pale and sweaty, eyes wide above colored bruises of fatigue, lips shiny. He hasn’t stopped shaking.

And, Merlin, James is such a fucking idiot for ever letting himself fall for Regulus Black’s finely crafted masks.

But his eyes focus now and he breathes out, “James,” like it’s a secret.

James wants so badly to pull him close and figure out what’s wrong. He can feel the impulse running through him, poised to activate all the muscle groups necessary to complete the task. But he stays where he is and watches Regulus closely.

“Regulus, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”

He breathes shallowly and says, “I’m- I’m fine.” His usually smoky voice catches and grinds on its way out.

James would laugh at that if it weren’t such a troubling scene.

“Well, forgive me if I find that hard to believe right now.”

Regulus screws up his face and lets it slack.

“I will be fine,” he amends.

“Do you need to go to Madame Pomfrey?”

Regulus shakes his head, “No. No, the worst has passed I think.”

He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, tries to slow his breathing.

James is a bit at a loss. Part of him wants to toss Regulus over one shoulder and drag him kicking and screaming to the Hospital Wing. The other part wants very badly for Regulus to not flinch away when he touches him.

James sits back on his heels and watches as Regulus steadies himself. First he takes care of his breathing, then he pulls at the high neck of his beautiful robes and smooths the fabric a bit. He straightens his hair and it occurs to James that he’s witnessing Regulus piece the mask back together, apply glue to the shards and stick them over his raw face.

He thinks that maybe now that he’s seen the process of putting it on, he’ll be able to recognize it when it’s there, like knowing the secret to a card trick.

Regulus pulls out his wand, but despite all his efforts his hands are still shaking.

“Here, let me,” James says. He flushes the toilet and uses his own wand to clean up the mess. Then he gets up and transfigures a glass from a bar of soap. He fills it with water and brings it back to Regulus, who accepts it and sips slowly.

“Thank you,” he croaks.

James holds himself back from directly asking what’s happened; he knows by now that direct questions rarely get you anywhere with Regulus.

“That’s a pretty fancy getup you’ve got there,” he says instead, gesturing to Regulus’s robes. They’re clearly tailored, and the swirls of embroidery match the color of the fabric, giving them a dimension that James thinks reflects the depths and ridges of Regulus’s captivating bone structure. “Do all Slytherins treat Halloween as a formal event?”

He’d kind of forgotten it’s Halloween and the party that he just walked out of. It all feels so far away from this bathroom, isolated and echoey and illuminated like a fishbowl as it is. A bit like they’re alone together underwater.

Regulus looks down at himself like he’s just now noticing his clothes. A wry smile appears on his face and he rakes a hand through his curls.

“No. Just me I suppose.” He sighs and closes his eyes again. “Barty and Evan have dressed as some creepy bloody clowns, I think. Are muggles afraid of clowns?” he asks with real curiosity.

James is a bit amused by this unconventional line of thought and shrugs.

“Not sure, but if the clowns were Barty and Evan I think that’d be enough to scare me.”

Regulus breathes out a weak laugh.

“What did you go as?” he asks, tilting his head to the side and meeting James’s stare.

“I think I ended up as a guy who did a smash and grab in Elton John’s wardrobe. It’s a bit murky.”

Regulus’s laugh is stronger this time, and the smile lingers on his face as he looks at James.

It’s the kind of look that makes James feel bold and a little restless. So he takes a chance.

“What about you? What are you supposed to be?”

Regulus’s smile fades until he looks gaunt in this strange blue light.

“Something my mother won’t take issue with.”

James tenses at that. To this day even a tertiary mention of Walburga Black has warning bells going off in his head. He doesn’t like that this whole episode, Regulus alone and sick in the bathroom at some inhospitable hour of the morning, has to do with that woman.

Regulus must be able to see the concern on his face because he offers the minimum explanation: “I had to go home for the evening.”

That does it for James.

“Did she…” But how does he finish that sentence? What words does he even use?

Regulus shakes his head minutely, but the haunted look in his eyes doesn’t offer any resolution. James is sure that if Walburga didn’t… then someone else… and she was certainly a part of it. He just knows.

And then there’s the whole issue of Regulus not denying any of this. Admittedly, James doesn’t exactly know what he’s asking but the implications are obvious enough. And are they really just going to sit here and pretend that throwing up in a girls’ lavatory at three in the morning is a natural reaction to visiting your family? Is it just James or is this perhaps, just maybe indicative of something?

But Regulus says, “No. I think this one’s on me.”

This actually punches a disbelieving laugh out of James.

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Regulus’s face shuts down, so quickly and completely that James only realizes then that it had been just a little bit open before, albeit in a tired, reluctant way.

“What would you know?” Regulus mutters.

And what a question! What would James know? Quite a bit, thank you. More than he’d like to but Godric, does he know it.

James feels himself stirring for an argument of the kind only Regulus Black can provide. One that requires all functional braincells on deck and a resolution not to back down when Regulus starts taking painful shots at him.

He leans forward.

“Regulus, can we skip past the part where we pretend that nothing’s happening?” he growls. “We both-”

But Regulus’s head thumps back against the wall and he says, “I’m not fighting about this with you tonight, James.”

And James realizes that while he might be ready, Regulus is in no shape to do battle.

He’s exhausted and probably still sick no matter what he claims. James’s bleeding heart won’t be responsible for making tonight any more painful than it already is for Regulus.

He feels himself deflate to match Regulus’s posture, slumped against the opposite wall and gazing at each other over the little distance between them. They must make an odd pair to anyone who might walk in and see them like this. James just likes the idea of them as a pair.

“You should go to bed,” James suggests softly.

Regulus just raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not the one with the Quidditch pitch booked for 7 in the morning.”

James slaps a hand to his face and groans.

“Fuck, I knew there was a reason no one else had it! What have I done?”

Regulus rasps a laugh.

James drops his hand to his lap and says, “Then I guess we better both be getting to bed.”

And under Regulus’s eyes, eyes that even when tired and secretive and weighted seem to draw some bravery out of him, he extends a hand between them, palm up, and waits.

He actually learned this trick from his time with the cat.

Regulus responds much the same way.

He looks a bit at first, like James might reach out and try to hit him, but James is stubborn, persistent in his patience.

Then Regulus places his own hand on top of James’s, lightly like he’s testing the heat of a flame.

His fingers curl into James’s, and James closes his hand around them. His skin is cool, accentuated by the cold nip where his rings meet James’s palm, and there are calluses from long hours gripping his broom, just like James’s. 

James stands and helps Regulus to his feet. He stumbles a bit and James holds his elbow to steady him. For a moment they just face each other, close by necessity of the narrow stall or for some mutual reassurance James can’t quite sort out right now.

Then Regulus pulls away and James follows him out of the bathroom.

They walk slowly the way to the dungeons. James suspects Regulus is doctoring his stride to appear smoother and easier than it really is and makes sure he doesn’t rush him.

When they get to the entrance, James turns to Regulus.

“You’ll be okay?” It comes out a bit more like a plea than James means it to.

“Yeah.”

James nods and runs a hand through his hair. It feels like there’s so much they should say, but he can’t parse through what any of it might be.

“Thank you, James,” Regulus says and turns away. Then he stops and says, “Tell Sirius-” but cuts himself off after two short words. “Never mind.”

James wants desperately to know how that sentence finished. 

“Goodnight, Regulus.”

James walks back to Gryffindor Tower slowly and gets into bed with his friends asleep around him.

He suffers through Quidditch practice a bare three and a half hours later and prostrates himself to the absolutely deserved abuse from his team.

And throughout the day he thinks about Regulus. What he suspects. What he knows.

He’s suspected, for a while, that Regulus’s home life might not be safe.

He knows that Regulus intentionally hides himself from people and that he saw a truer version of him last night.

He knows that Regulus returned home and came back to Hogwarts too unwell to even make it to a boys’ lavatory.

He suspects that Regulus has come to trust James. Maybe. To a small degree.

He suspects that last night Regulus cut himself off from saying “Tell Sirius happy birthday.”

He suspects that Regulus doesn’t hate his brother.

He suspects that he misses him.

He knows that his parents have already taken in one Black as their own child.

He knows that, at the very least, one other person has kept Regulus Black in mind when it seems quite possible that many others have chosen to overlook him, James included.

He knows that this person would be concerned about Regulus given recent events.

That night, James writes a very carefully worded letter to his father.

Chapter Text

November rushes in with an autumn storm that turns the grounds muddy and slick for the first week of the month, not that anyone is brave enough to go outside in the blowing rain and test it for themselves.

Regulus finds that the weather suits his mood, not necessarily one of cliché gloom but rather a kind of relentless, driving paranoia combined with a dread that feeds off of events both past and future.

The rain also prevents him from retreating as the cat, and of course there’s little sleep to be had. He’s not really sure what source of energy he’s working off of these days.

Needless to say, Regulus is not holding up too well.

The events of the Death Eater meeting on Halloween night have stuck with him like a sticky tar that only spreads when he tries to wipe it off. As ridiculous and awful as it was, Regulus still has to consider it a victory because he got out of it with the two things he had hoped to: the location of another Horcrux and his life.

Regulus had left the castle on Halloween as the cat and run all the way to Hogsmeade. It was simple work to sneak into a closed shop and use their floo to get back to Grimmauld Place and his waiting parents. He’d changed into formal robes and accompanied them to the crooked, towering halls of Lestrange Manor.

Regulus had perfected a way to get through these meetings, a rerouting of all his energy towards securing his apathetic mask in place and reinforcing his mental shields. He rarely let himself listen to the words that were being exchanged out of fear that they might pull some unacceptable reaction from him.

That night was a bit different though. Regulus wasn’t just here to survive. He was here to hunt.

He seated himself strategically, across from Lucius Malfoy and about two seats down. Voldemort entered with Bellatrix at his side but ended their conversation and sent her to take her place to the right of his chair.

The meeting began when Voldemort joined the table, and Regulus started his search.

Lucius Malfoy was no legilimens. He had likely been taught the bare bones of occlumency as most members of elite pureblood houses were for security reasons, but the result was probably a shield of almost no challenge to someone of Regulus’s skill.

He had made a calculated decision to start with Lucius rather than Bellatrix. In part because he had been almost certain that Lucius wouldn’t have legilimency training, while Bellatrix most definitely did, and in part because Regulus had seen and done a lot of nasty things over the past few months, even more throughout his whole life, but he wasn’t quite ready to enter the depths of his cousin’s mind yet.

From his few seats away, Regulus leapt from his mind as quickly and subtly as he could in a room full of the most powerful legilimens he knew. He had pared himself down to the most base and inconsequential form possible to avoid notice, but he still had to be fast.

Lucius’s shields were indeed rather uncreative, a fortified block of veined white marble extending around his thoughts. To his credit, they were strong, but they had very few if any tricks to them. Regulus also had a suspicion that what he was seeing was the strongest part, meant to discourage legilimens who would overestimate their reach and impenetrability.

Regulus allowed himself a few precious minutes to inspect the wall. He stretched his mind to race along its length in all directions and, as he suspected, it thinned and cracked the more distant it became. Lucius was not accustomed to real threats like Regulus, ones who were more likely to think around his defenses than they were to try and force their way through.

Regulus located a crack that would suit his purposes, far removed from the forefront of Lucius’s attention, and simply walked in.

Regulus had put a great deal of thought into how he planned to seek out the Horcrux in preparation for this meeting. Looking for one specific thought in the mass of synapses and ideas that was the brain was about as difficult as it sounded. So Regulus would instead look for associations.

Being in the presence of the Dark Lord likely called to mind the Horcrux, the special item entrusted to Lucius on pain of death as recognition of his loyalty and blood status. It didn’t matter what reminded Lucius of that moment, whether it was the presence of the parent soul, or the similarity of one Death Eater meeting to another, or Lucius reflecting on his own ego and a particular point of pride. There were multiple avenues that Regulus could follow that would lead him to the more important thing: the memory.

Regulus caught the flash of an immediate thought and sliced into Lucius’s stream of consciousness. This one was deeper than the shallows that he had splashed around in in James’s mind for the past few weeks, but Regulus remembered how to remain hidden and unobtrusive. The thought was a quick note of jealousy, competition, suspicion aimed at Bellatrix, his sister-in-law who had such a close trust with the Dark Lord when she was just a crazy bitch but he supposed that bitches had their purpose when men needed to get things done and she wasn’t the only trusted one, no, Lucius had received an item from the Dark Lord too-

That was the one Regulus needed. He followed the thought back to its source, the semi-buried memory of the August Death Eater meeting. Regulus kept it in sight as well as he could. Memories were tricky; they could fade or be doctored and misleading. This one skipped around a bit. Regulus caught glimpses of his mother and Bellatrix, the vague motion of Voldemort handing them things he couldn’t make out, but the part where Lucius accepted a nondescript black book stood out clearly, polished and preserved by Lucius’s own sense of triumph.

Regulus let the memory play out. He could barely hear what words were exchanged, but he felt Lucius’s understanding, his fear at the enormity of the Dark Lord’s possessiveness of this object, his ill-advised curiosity as to what could possibly be this important and yet something the Dark Lord was willing to part with. They left the room. The memory skipped to some needling exchange with Bellatrix. It blew past the apparition and picked up again in Malfoy Manor. Regulus spotted Narcissa in a dressing gown, reserved and beautiful as always. Lucius walked past her and up some stairs. A number of turns. An open door. A library.

Lucius stood in front of a neatly packed shelf of books. He removed one and replaced it with the small black one Voldemort had given him. It looked out of place against the rich jewel tones of the thick volumes. Lucius produced his wand and transfigured the whole of shelf of books from floor to ceiling into duplicates of the Dark Lord’s.

He stepped back and admired the work, a column of countless black books standing like a thunderhead in the dark library. He laid spell over spell around its vicinity, warning charms and repellants and anti-thievery wards. He left the library.

Regulus lets the memory go and floats back to the surface of Lucius’s thoughts. He bobs his way to the shield and slips back out the crack. He takes one moment to assess the Death Eaters and gauge his own performance in his body; his face is as blank and uninterested as he left it and his eyes are a little glazed but probably not enough to catch attention.

Then Regulus makes the leap back into his own mind and disguises his sudden re-embodiment with a shift in his chair.

It had taken longer than he expected, and the separation from his own mind has left him tired like he’s just played two Quidditch matches.

The meeting ended about 20 minutes later. The Death Eaters rose from their seats and conversed with each other in low voices. Their activities had been somewhat slow recently, taking up fewer headlines in the Prophet and less room in public conversation. Regulus knew better than to treat this like a good thing. It only meant they were collecting themselves for something big, something Regulus thought was meant to launch them out of the shadows once and for all.

When Lord Voldemort called his name, Regulus was expecting it. There was no sense in pulling him out of school and risking attention if he wasn’t going to be tested in some way that night. Voldemort, Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Walburga watched as he approached them at the end of the room. They made their way down a dim hall and into an office. Bellatrix closed the door behind them.

Regulus reminded himself that he had prepared for this—in fact, it was almost exactly as he had expected—but that didn’t mean it was easy to see.

There was a man sitting on the floor in the corner. He was wearing some sort of drab uniform that Regulus recognized as belonging to the Ministry of Magic from the emblem on the shoulder. A security guard.

The man had seen better days. He was lucid but barely. His hair was a sweaty mess stuck to his forehead and drying in place from a drip of blood originating somewhere in his hairline. His hands weren’t even bound, but Regulus supposed that there wasn’t much point in tying up a wizard if you’d already relieved them of their wand.

There weren’t any other signs of violence on him. Regulus didn’t believe that for a second.

He trembled and twitched every so often, as sure a sign as any that the remnants of the cruciatus curse still coursed through his body, and he smelled of piss and fear. They were easy to spot for someone who had encountered them before.

Regulus let none of this assessment show on his face. He simply awaited instructions.

Lord Voldemort was likely looking for some reaction because they stood there for a long time not saying anything. When Regulus showed nothing but indifference, he spoke.

“Regulus, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Farrow,” Lord Voldemort said. “He has been kind enough to take time out of his busy schedule to join us here this evening but not so kind as to answer some of our more pressing questions. I would like for you to see what… incentives you might be able to uncover for us to encourage Mr. Farrow to continue our conversation.”

Lord Voldemort folded his hands and watched Regulus expectantly.

Regulus nodded and summoned his tired legilimency again.

“Of course, my Lord.”

This was going to be tricky.

Regulus remembered his first test back in June. The test within a test, of loyalty and skill both. He suspected that this was something similar. Someone as self-important and controlling as Voldemort wouldn’t allow for an untried sixteen-year-old to muddle his plans.

Which meant that Farrow was as good as dead.

Whether Regulus passed or failed this new test, the man had already been dragged into the highly protected home of one of the most powerful wizarding families in Britain and seen the faces of multiple suspected Death Eaters and the man who presided over them. He would not be leaving Lestrange Manor tonight.

What Voldemort wanted Regulus to do was look inside the man and discern what he cared about. Regulus didn’t kid himself that he would accept anything less than Farrow’s family. Regulus was in a room with two other powerful legilimens as it was, either of which could have easily done this themselves. But this was a test to see if Regulus could follow orders, if he could apply the well-honed skill Voldemort already knew he had for his purposes without question.

Regulus was out of options. He set his jaw and crouched to look the man in the eye.

Farrow had no shields when Regulus stretched his over-taxed mind out to him, and finding his thoughts was as easy as stumbling into the first reaches of the sea. The man flinched away from him and made some sound of surprise and discomfort; Regulus hardly had the energy to be as careful as he could be, but he knew his present company wouldn’t object to a sloppier retrieval given what they’d already done to him.

Still, Regulus tried his best to smooth his movements and spare the man from unnecessary pain. There was plenty more of that in his future anyway.

Farrow’s family were pitifully easy to find. They were almost at the front of his mind, being pushed and pulled back and forth by some tidal tug-of-war between Farrow’s fear that they would be used against him and his expectation of that very thing.

Regulus saw a woman first, the roots of his whole little family, his wife. She was tall and dark-skinned and looked like she’d put up a fight. Regulus hoped so.

Then he saw two girls, maybe a few years apart in age. The older one couldn’t have been older than nine, the younger not yet seven.

Regulus was going to be sick. He pushed his bile back down and kept looking.

The thoughts of his family were attached to a house, split level and perfectly suburban. The house was attached to an address, and Regulus was about to remove himself when he noticed another thread snaking away from the house. Regulus followed it what he understood to be some great distance until he saw a school. A muggle boarding school. And attached to the school were thoughts of another child, a bit older, a son with curly hair. A Squib.

Before Regulus could think about it any further he lashed out at that thought. The man gasped and thrashed against the carpeted floor of the study, but he could do nothing as Regulus destroyed the thread of association between the Squib son and the rest of the family he’d seen.

Then Regulus got out of there. His vision blurred a little when he landed back in his head, but he stood carefully and kept himself upright.

Around him, the others waited. Bellatrix looked amused as the man whimpered and held his head. Rodolphus looked bored and his mother was just as severe and unreadable as always. Lord Voldemort kept his expectant gaze on Regulus.

Regulus had a slim chance here. If he’d been mistaken and the Dark Lord or his mother had already looked into Farrow’s mind themselves and found three children, he was done for. But if they hadn’t, then there was a small chance that Regulus could stop one person from dying tonight.

It felt wrong to call it saving when he was about to kill three others.

Regulus had never harmed another person through his legilimency, and he wasn’t sure how coherent Farrow would be after Regulus had severed the associations between Farrow’s son and his family. He hoped it was coherent enough to spill his guts with whatever information they wanted cause Regulus really needed this to end soon. At least at this point if Voldemort or Walburga decided to inspect his mind for themselves, they would only find two children.

“What have you found for us, Regulus?”

Regulus had to make his play.

“A wife and two daughters.” He did his best to sound uninterested. “Etrani, Samantha, and Domingo.”

The man sobbed at the sound of his family’s names. Bellatrix hissed something at him that ended with a smile.

Regulus went on.

“They live in a house on Bedford Road in Horsham.” He looked Voldemort in the eye and said, “Sussex.”

Lord Voldemort smiled.

“Well done, Regulus.”

Regulus just nodded once. But Voldemort did not look away.

He said, “I’m sure you won’t mind if I have a look to verify?”

Regulus’s heart raced a little, but he had covered his tracks.

“No, my Lord.”

“Excellent.”

And Regulus waited for the man to flinch again at the feeling of another imposter in his mind, but he didn’t.

Instead Regulus sensed a looming presence outside of his own shields and realized he had made a horrible, crucial error.

Voldemort was looking to verify the information in his own mind.

Regulus was frozen for a second before some last-ditch survival instinct kicked his brain into gear and dredged up a memory. There was so much that could go wrong with this one little idea, especially with thoughts of Farrow’s son swirling through the forefront of his mind. Regulus could maybe possibly walk away in tact if he was very, very careful about what he allowed Voldemort to see.

Regulus knew he was meant to lower his shields and allow Voldemort free access to his thoughts, but that wasn’t an option. Instead he carved out a tunnel, scraped away just enough of the packed sand to form a tight path through the shield and directly to the only thoughts Regulus wanted him to see.

He had actually learned this trick from James, in one of their earlier occlumency sessions when he had done exactly what Regulus told him not to do and toyed around with his thoughts and Regulus’s presence. He had managed to arrange his own thoughts, present some and remove others. It had been quite impressive, innovative and natural for someone so new to the craft, though Regulus didn’t tell him that.

He felt Voldemort’s consciousness enter the tunnel and scrape against the sides and quickly shoved away all thoughts of James Potter. Instead he pushed the images of the wife and daughters and the little house on Bedford Road towards where the tunnel let out and tried to drain all thoughts of the son to some distant part of his mind.

Then he waited, as still and unassuming as possible.

Voldemort’s presence stopped at the edge of the shield and looked out over Regulus’s immediate thoughts. Regulus did his best to allow other ordinary ideas to float into the mix, thoughts of school, one of Quidditch, the journey back, while he kept the family large and obvious up front.

There was really nothing like putting your life on the line trying not to think about a whole laundry list of things that could get you killed to make you realize just how many secrets you had.

Voldemort's consciousness waited and Regulus felt as if he were treading water in the presence of a shark, holding his breath and minimizing his movements in the slim hope the predator wouldn't sense him.

But then the faint pulsing, threatening aura of Voldemort’s consciousness began to fade as it retreated back through the tunnel and out past Regulus’s shield. Regulus waited until it was completely gone before caving in the tunnel and allowing himself to feel one cold trickle of relief.

In his body, Regulus felt as if someone had punched holes in his stomach and his head and scrambled whatever vital, vulnerable parts of him they could find. He placed one hand on the side table next to him to maintain his balance.

Voldemort was nodding approvingly and pulling a bone-white wand from his robes.

“You have been an excellent help tonight, Regulus. I would invite you stay for the rest of the evening, but I understand you must return to you studies.”

Regulus said, “Yes, my Lord,” and began counting numbers by sixes to keep himself present.

Voldemort looked at him like a benevolent father.

“Very well. I look forward to your company in December.”

Regulus bowed slightly and took his dismissal. Bellatrix reached up one hand and played with a lock of his hair and said, “What a clever little dagger you are, Reggie.” Regulus stepped past her and held his head forward so he wouldn’t be tempted to take one last look at Farrow as he left. It still felt like a disrespect to do so.

He counted himself lucky that Bella and Rodolphus remained with Voldemort, likely more interested in the dirty work that was just around the corner. Walburga walked beside Regulus all the way to the parlor with the fireplace. She didn’t say anything as Regulus grabbed a handful of floo powder.

If anyone were to catch on to Regulus’s game that night, it would have been his mother. They knew each other too well. But as Regulus stepped into the fireplace, she just looked at him. He took that to mean he hadn’t fucked up enough for her to drag him back home and deliver a punishment right that moment. He took it to mean she didn’t know he had lied. Again.

Her searching gaze was the last thing he saw before the green flames roared up and spun him back to Hogsmeade.

Regulus had stumbled out of the shop and thrown up in an alley before he could transform into the cat.

When he did transform, it was only slightly better, like all the thoughts and nausea were too big for this body. He’d run back to the castle and crept in through a window. The second transformation was worse, and he’d only barely made it to the closest bathroom before he was sick again.

He’d collapsed there for some unknown amount of time with his head spinning and his stomach revolting until there was nothing left in him.

Then there had been James Potter of all the fucking people, arriving like some deus ex machina and looking like an angel in hues of midnight blue, sent by the heavens to sit with him on a bathroom floor. James Potter had already surpassed the point of “problem” in Regulus’s parlance; he didn’t need him here all concerned and tender and still fucking funny even as Regulus trembled across from him, the worst kind of murderer.

And damn him because Regulus had no shields left, mental or emotional or otherwise. He knows he let slip far too much because James reached out his hand and Regulus actually took it despite having decided on some very strict rules for himself when it came to James Potter and any feelings he may or may not have for him, the first of which was obviously no touching. But maybe that hand had saved him just a little because he managed to make it all the way back to the Slytherin common room on his own two feet.

Regulus could see all the questions he wouldn’t let him ask written on James’s face, as well as the assumptions. Regulus knew that James knew that something was very wrong, and he also knew that there was no way for James to know just what had put Regulus in this state.

But James knew something, and something was already too much.

The damage had been done. Regulus just hopes that James’s curiosity finds better things to occupy him before he does something stupid and looks for answers he doesn’t want.

The days following Halloween had been a blur. If Farrow’s disappearance or that of his family made the papers, Regulus doesn’t know and doesn’t want to. He had only seen James once more, long enough to tell him that they couldn’t practice occlumency as usual with some excuse about an exam and Quidditch practice. James had looked like he absolutely did not believe that but Regulus wasn’t about to tell him it was because his mind still felt like the muddy mess of ground outside and the idea of using his legilimency drove him back to the edge of illness.

He had received one curt letter from his mother a few days after the meeting with nothing amiss. No warnings or reprimands, just a bleak reminder that he should prepare himself for the meeting in December. It had assuaged Regulus’s gnawing fear enough for a whole four hours of sleep that night.

The rain hasn’t let up, and the overcast sky has turned the afternoon light weak and sourceless. In their dorm room with its windows looking out into the depths of the Black Lake, this translates to an muted greenish emanation that seeps through the windows and sinks their beds and the rug and the stone walls into a state of unreal suspension.

Regulus and Evan are on Evan’s bed waiting but pretending they’re not waiting. Regulus has his journal open in front of him and has drawn his sixth copy of the little black book. In a fit of paranoia yesterday, he spent hours devising a code for his writings and spelled his entries into an inscrutable mess of symbols that only he can undo and read. It doesn’t disguise the rampant sketches but at least anyone who stumbles across it wouldn’t know where to find the book or the ring or learn anything untoward about Horcruxes.

Just then the door bangs open and Barty strides in with a paper clenched in one hand and an owl resting on his other arm.

“It’s done,” he says and tosses the paper between where Evan and Regulus have looked up.

Regulus grabs for the paper and smooths it out. Evan leans over his shoulder to read the opening lines of a letter from Glendoza to Crouch Sr. congratulating him (and himself) on a job well done and expressing his optimism for the bill’s chances in the Wizengamot.

“It’s passed on?” Evan asks.

Barty flops down on the bed behind them and the owl flaps its wings a few times in protest.

“It’ll be under review for a while, but they’ll want to get it off the agenda before the new year. All we have to do now is wait.”

“That’ll be cutting it close,” Evan says.

Regulus isn’t sure when the December Death Eater meeting will fall and he can’t help but agree.

“It’s the best chance we’ve got,” he says.

Barty and Evan look at him with concern. All of his friends have been tiptoeing around him recently on account of the fact that he seems like he’s one bad day away from a very drastic, very un-Regulus Black-like break down.

Barty runs a few fingers down Doppel’s smooth feathers.

“We’ll owl you over break as soon as we hear the outcome, Reg. You’ll be the first to know.”

Regulus nods and says, “Thank you.”

He hates putting his friends in this position. Hates that he’s the reason Barty will spend the holidays in his loveless home to wait for early word about the bill’s status rather than spending Christmas with Evan like they’d planned. Hates that his success or failure to delay the Dark Mark will be what determines Evan’s fate at the hands of his ambitious father.

But he won’t pretend that he could have done this without them. Between Barty’s conniving and Evan’s talent for deception, they’ve carved him one slim hopeful path. Regulus just has to wait for the right moment and not screw it up.

Evan says, “Of course, Reg,” and lays back between Barty’s legs to rest his head on his stomach.

Above him, Barty considers the owl and says, “No chance the Wizengamot would just step down and let us three replace them? It sure as hell would be a lot more efficient.”

Regulus cracks a weak smile. “It’d be more efficient even if you replaced them with 50 clones of Doppel dressed in robes.”

Doppel twists his head around to stare at Regulus with expectant eyes.

Barty sighs and says, “What am I going to do with an owl spoiled absolutely rotten on slow-braised pork? Look at him. So entitled. You’ve done your job, bird, don’t expect the treatment to last.”

Doppel looks back at Barty and hoots dolefully. Evan chuckles and reaches up one hand to stroke his feathers.

“Maybe you can palm him off on Glendoza. Let those two egos battle it out.”

Barty considers this.

“Not a bad idea, Ev. Glendoza is quite old. With any luck, Doppel will find his kitchen and eat all his food and starve him into an early grave.”

Regulus lays back on the bed next to Evan and Barty and takes Doppel from Barty’s arm. Doppel shifts to Regulus’s without complaint and looks at him like Oh so you’re going to feed me? Regulus rests him on his stomach and pets along the soft feathers of his head and lets the simple priorities of this owl drown out the tumult of Regulus’s life for a few quiet minutes.

*

Regulus can’t really stop the bouncing of his leg as he waits for James in the Transfiguration classroom. Partially because what they need to do today will determine if any of this ridiculous plan is going to work at all. Partially because Regulus hasn’t seen James for longer than a few brief words or a look in the hallway since Halloween night. He can’t be held responsible for the way that distance seems to be interfering with normal brain functions.

It’s the most pathetic thing about all of this—if Regulus from even six months ago could see Regulus now, he would surely choke the life out of him and lower his inert body to the ground, and Regulus now would probably thank him for it—but damn if he doesn’t miss James.

Somewhere along the line Regulus has developed a dependency on these regular doses of James Potter. He’ll take him in all his forms: patient and inventive in the Transfiguration classroom, eager but engaged when they practice occlumency, goofy and sometimes surprisingly thoughtful at the top of the Astronomy Tower when he’s with the cat. The through lines of James’s good humor and energy and attention fixed firmly on Regulus are just as enthralling.

Regulus craves it like an addict.

After his little revelation in October, he had been tempted to tamp those sudden feelings down and deny them until he had no breath left to do so. But there are already so many people in Regulus’s life who have reason to lie to him and keep him in the dark, he figures he better not let himself be one of them.

So fine.

James Potter is kind of fit, and it makes Regulus stupid.

He’s also charming and bubbly and genuine and steady and perceptive.

He’s so unlike anything else in Regulus’s life that Regulus feels like he must have been dropped here from another planet. Planet See-What-You-Can’t-Have?

It’s an unfortunate infatuation for Regulus because there is literally not a single thing he can do about it. James is an idealist pitted against Regulus’s ruthless, cynical practicality, and Regulus wouldn’t dare break that core of hope and optimism within him. It’s sad enough that the war is on its way to do just that.

He also lives under the same roof as Sirius which is just about as off-limits as it can get. Regulus imagines his relationship with his brother as something from one of the Greek myths he’s been working through with James. In his eternal celestial battle with Sirius, they’ll divide up the universe between them: Sirius can have everything that’s light and good, and Regulus will content himself with what’s left.

James Potter falls squarely into one of those categories and it’s not Regulus’s.

Sirius had staked his claim on James years ago and again when he left Grimmauld Place. Regulus had hated Sirius so intensely for putting him in a position where he had to deny him and then looking at Regulus like it was his fault and leaving him in that house. He hated him more because he understood why he did it; anywhere was better than their family.

But now? Regulus really understands. He understands so well that he thinks Sirius is a bit mad for waiting so long in the first place.

No bloody fucking wonder he gave up one brother when the one he got in exchange was James fucking Potter. Regulus would sign himself away in a heartbeat if that was what’s considered a fair trade these days.

So Regulus spends his time in the small grey area provided by two iron-clad conclusions: Regulus feels very non-platonic things for James Potter and Regulus cannot under any circumstances act on them.

He makes it work.

That doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy their time together. He likes James’s completely unwarranted confidence when he hints at how good his mental shields are getting. He liked that moment when he caught James staring at him after his duel with Fenwick, the idea that he’d watched Regulus win. He liked the strangely open conversation in the owlery and hearing about James’s itinerant parents.

He really liked the feeling of James’s careful fingers running along the cat’s fur and the translation of that same hand gripping his own when James had pulled him from the bathroom floor ten days ago.

Regulus treats those occasions as anomalies for his own sanity.

The door to the Transfiguration classroom opens and Regulus can’t help the way his attention is immediately arrested by the sight of James.

He’s wearing a white cable knit sweater that Regulus wishes didn’t make him look so fucking soft and he closes the door with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry I’m late. For some reason Marlene thought I was the person to consult for Christmas gift ideas for her girlfriend.”

Ah yes, Marlene and Dorcas. Regulus can honestly say he hadn’t seen that one coming.

“Well, I hope she figures it out cause Dorcas claims she’s found the perfect gift and she’s rather smug about it.”

James laughs as he sits in his usual seat across from Regulus and pushes a hand through his unruly hair. Regulus distantly considers chopping his hair off just to get him to stop. Or his hand. He would do it if he weren’t so fond of both.

Regulus mentally slaps himself into the present. He rummages around his bag and produces an item wrapped in a silk cloth.

Immediately James jerks back from it and looks at Regulus with an alarmed expression. Regulus can’t blame him. It suffuses the room with a kind of throbbing ill intent that Regulus is only immune to because he’s lived in a house with it his whole life.

That, and he’s encountered much worse by now.

“Respectfully, Regulus, what the fuck is that?”

Regulus places it on the desk and peels away the folds of cloth to reveal a pair of gleaming silver shears.

“They’re a rather famous murder weapon from the Maidstone Village Haunting of 1840.”

At James’s blank look, he continues, “There was an unsolvable string of gruesome deaths in Maidstone at the time. The muggle police were stumped because there were no signs of an intruder present at any of the killings. Turns out this pair of shears was possessed by a ghost with its own violent death to take out on unwitting recipients of the shears. They had to call in a special branch of Aurors to sort it all out in the end.”

James is looking at Regulus like he’s told him he enjoys taming dragons for fun on weekends.

“So I have a few questions.”

“Sure.”

“Where in the hell did you get these shears from?”

“My parlor.”

The answer does not seem to clear up any of James’s confusion.

He shakes his head and says, “Why would you possibly have an item in your parlor that gives off the distinct impression it wants to kill me?”

“Because they’re well-known and possessed objects are very rare and valuable.”

“And in all that time they haven’t killed you or anyone in your family?”

“No, I am very much still alive, and there’s only been one instance of death by stabbing in my family since 1840 and that was because his wife hated him.”

“How come?”

“Because he was cheating on her and took her wand away.”

“No, how come the shears haven’t had a go at you?”

“Because they’ve gone through a sort of de-possession process. In reality there’s no such thing, they’re definitely still possessed. But the number of suppression spells and rituals they’ve undergone are more than enough to prevent any nasty accidents from occurring.”

 James rubs his face with his hands and dislodges his glasses. Regulus is having a rather good time.

“Okay last question. Why the hell did you bring them to school?”

Regulus takes a breath. This is the part that matters.

“Because they have an aura. I know you can feel it. I need to be able to transfigure something ordinary into something that gives off the same aura. We’ll practice with these.”

Really there’s any number of cursed items in Grimmauld Place that fill the whole house with feelings of unease and malice, but Regulus had needed to search a bit in the brief window he had on Halloween before the meeting to find an object with an aura from an actual person, not just from a spell. Apparently haunted items were as close as he was going to get to the sensation of a piece of soul contained in an object.

“Actually I lied, one more question. You do realize how incredibly concerning this sounds to tell a person that you want to transfigure stuff into shears that feel like they’re plotting your death?”

“Yes, I am aware of that.”

James stares at him for a long second. Then he blows out a breath and slumps back.

“Alright. But we can’t actually transfigure regular things into possessed items. There’s no way to replicate a possession like that, at least not that I know of.”

Regulus shifts in his seat.

“No, I know that. But I’ve been thinking about it and we really shouldn’t have to. It just has to feel like it, not actually be it. It’s more than possible that the possession has altered the object in some way that causes it to maintain an echo of the ghost even when it’s this suppressed.”

James sits forward, drawn in once more. “So you think the aura could belong to the shears now, not just the ghost? In that case it would be a bit like what we figured out with resonant metals a few weeks ago, how to match a frequency.”

“Exactly, that could work.” This is what Regulus had been hoping for from James, for him to come fill in the gaps of Regulus’s innovations and provide that twist that made it all click.

It really was a shame he and James couldn’t be anything more than the contrived, transient duo they were in their shared liminal spaces. They were quite good together.

James jumps to his feet and gathers items from around the classroom while Regulus thinks out loud about the sort of alterations they’d need to make to the spell.

The next few hours produce a lot of very odd shears.

Physically, they’re identical. Same luster, same weight, same screech when they open and close.

Non-physically, they’re all over the place. Some kind of buzz with a low discontent while others actually jerk around and scare James and Regulus into tripping over chairs and each other.

Others still are perfectly innocuous.

It’s heading towards one in the morning when they start to narrow in on a variation that’s close to the possessed shears. Their last attempt actually feels focused and hostile, not quite there but very nearly.

James is moments away from falling asleep on his desk, and as much as Regulus would like to witness that, he takes pity on him and calls off their efforts.

“We’d better change all these back or McGonagall will think we’ve set our sights on becoming some really fucked up tailors,” James says through a yawn.

Regulus snorts at that and gathers up handfuls of shears to return to their natural states.

“I don’t know, there could be a market for that. Clothes that hate your guts. For occasions when you wish you could garrote yourself with your scarf, it’ll do it for you.”

James laughs loud into the empty classroom. Regulus turns away to hide his blush.

“Offering new and innovative solutions for unbearable family dinners and work events that you simply must get out of,” James adds.

“Forever traumatize your friends and coworkers by dying suddenly in their presence from hat-induced asphyxiation.”

They laugh together and finish their transfiguration and then there’s nothing left to do. But neither of them leave right away.

Instead Regulus sits on his desk and James leans against his with his long legs reaching into the space under Regulus’s feet. Regulus is a bit enamored by the sight of their feet so close together which is such a moronic thing to lose seconds of his life thinking about, but here he is. Thinking about it.

Then James says, “How have you been? I feel like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Regulus’s heart jumps a little at the idea that James might have missed him too. At the very least he noticed his absence. The bar is real fucking low it seems.

He knows from the careful way he says it that James is referencing Regulus’s state when he found him on Halloween. He doesn’t look much better now after more than a week of no escape from a brain overfed on nightmare fuel with no way to shut it off.

But Regulus says, “I’m alright. Just need to get through exams.”

The real list looks something like master transfiguration, get through exams, survive going home, fake it through another Death Eater meeting, deliver the most high stakes performance of his life to a known mass murderer, then… Happy New Year?

Regulus hasn’t planned that far. It feels kind of pointless.

He much prefers to center himself in this dark, quiet classroom with James. In truth, he’s convinced he’s scamming the universe out of way more James Potter time than he’s dully owed. But he’ll probably be dead by his 17^th birthday anyway so he doesn’t actually feel all that bad about it.

James looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t. He folds his arms and watches Regulus.

“Have you considered the Gryffindor party on Saturday? After our Quidditch match?” he asks.

Regulus scoffs.

“You mean the one that’s going to be as vivacious as a wake? Full of sad people coming to terms with their loss to Slytherin?”

James grins and shakes his head.

 “I simply cannot wait to prove you wrong. It’s going to be beautiful.”

“Well, even if you were to win you know why I couldn’t go.”

James’s smile fades.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. I guess I just want you there.”

And Regulus will not be thinking about that for the rest of the week.

“How about another bet then?” James says.

He pushes off from his desk, which puts him standing right there between Regulus’s knees looking down at him intently.

“In the spirit of fairness?” James echoes Regulus’s words from back when he’d agreed to show James his shields if he could produce his own.

Regulus swallows and tries to control his breathing. His heart is almost audible and, Merlin, why is his stupid, useless body rebelling against him now of all times?

“What did you have in mind?”

James thinks for a moment and Regulus holds his breath so he doesn’t pass out with how fucking good James smells, like pine and dew and fucking sunshine? Regulus thinks this whole situation is a crime against the spirit of fairness.

“If Gryffindor wins,” James starts, “You have to meet me at the top of the Astronomy Tower on Saturday night.” He finishes with a self-satisfied grin.

It’s an odd request, to say the least. Regulus can’t help but sense an ellipses.

“And?”

“And the rest will come later. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

“Hmm. I won’t lose any sleep.” Mostly because he probably wouldn’t really sleep at all.

James smiles and takes one blessed step back. But then he extends his hand to Regulus, palm up and patient like he did on Halloween.

Regulus hesitates again but eventually takes it and savors the warm skin and sure grip and matching calluses. He wonders why James does it. Regulus knows what it means to him, for better or worse, but what does it mean to James to offer this hand?

He slides off his desk and there’s so little space between them, it’s torturous.

James is looking into Regulus’s eyes with the same focus he has during occlumency, like Regulus is something that requires his full attention when he’s this near.

“Regulus…”

Regulus waits, still holding onto James’s hand between them.

Then James says what Regulus thinks he’s been wanting to say for over a week now.

“If you needed help… you would come to me, right?”

Regulus’s face hardens. He feels the buoyant anticipation of the moment before leaden and drop.

“No.”

He pulls his hand back and grabs his bag.

He ignores James’s lost expression as he storms out the door.

*

Regulus sees it coming, but he still hates being wrong.

Hates that the Gryffindor Chasers are as strong as always. Hates that their Beaters have managed to cause enough chaos on the Slytherin line that they’re all out of sorts and preoccupied with infighting. Hates that as Seeker, he’s got no part in it except to watch the whole thing play out from above.

When the score begins to climb in Gryffindor’s favor, he decides the gameplay isn’t worth his time and instead splits his attention between the Gryffindor Seeker who’s been eyeing him apprehensively the whole time, the wide expanse of sky, and James Potter scoring goal after goal and looking unfairly attractive in the process.

Regulus can recognize a good plan and excellent execution when he sees it, and now he can recognize James’s deceptively strategic mind behind it too. He can gracefully cede defeat when he’s backed into a corner and outplayed, and it is possible for him to be a good sport about it.

What he simply can not under any circumstances condone is Gryffindor taking the victory by more that 300 bloody points. That reaches beyond the degrees of embarrassment Regulus is willing to endure.

So when he finally sees the Snitch three hours into the game with Slytherin woefully behind, he takes his chance.

It’s the usual mad race to the finish when the Gryffindor Seeker catches on to his pursuit. He has a feeling James gave her the same advice the other teams have given their Seekers: tail Regulus because he’s going to see the Snitch first, he just is. But she’s much better at it than either the Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff Seekers. She’s even a bit of a nuisance as she gets up close behind him and forces him to keep her in sight when he turns. So he employs one of his favorite tactics and follows the Snitch into the chaos of gameplay to shake her off.

He's still got it in front of him, closing the distance after aiming right through the Gryffindor Chasers’ formation, when a Bludger rockets out from behind a player and Regulus only has enough time to roll before it grazes the shaft of his broom and smashes into his fingers where they wrap around it.

He swears loud enough that the crowd might hear and tucks his right hand into his chest, now totally useless. He urges his broom forward and focuses on the wind screaming against his ears and the glint of the Snitch a mere meter away to distract from the growing pain and heat accumulating in his fingers. The Snitch zooms its way towards the groomed field below and Regulus sighs before readying himself for an appropriately messy end to an already messy game.

When he’s pulled practically even with the Snitch and races a bare five meters above the ground, he plants his right foot on the broom and launches himself off and out towards the Snitch. He feels cold metal in his left hand before he’s falling the rest of the distance to the grass.

Regulus lands badly on his left ankle and crumples into a roll with both hands clutched against him.

When he finally stops, he just lets himself lay on his back for a moment and appreciate that the sky is clear after quite a lot of rain; the deep blue is taking on a yellow edge he associates with the beginning of autumn evenings.

Somewhere, distantly, they announce a Gryffindor win and Regulus figures he should probably sit up. He sees players in red and green landing and coming towards him. He’s damn glad that game is over. He’s awfully tired.

James gets to him first because of course he does. He looks a bit too concerned for a few broken fingers and an ankle, but then again he’s always a bit overly expressive.

“Regulus, are you alright? Oh Merlin, look at your hand. Wait actually don’t, just look at me okay?”

Regulus has no problem with that.

James is flushed and windburned from hours in the cold. His eyes are wide behind his glasses and look a bit bronze in this light. His hair isn’t even more of a wreck than usual which Regulus finds funny. He’s heavenly, wrapped up in red robes and blue sky and golden sunlight. Regulus really wants to touch.

Luckily for his baser urges, Dorcas falls to her knees at Regulus’s other side.

“What the hell was that for, Reg? I’ll admit that game was a disaster but you don’t have to go jumping off brooms about it.”

Regulus steals one last look at James then says, “You try watching it all with an aerial view. You don’t let a train wreck play out if you can put an end to it.”

James and Dorcas laugh a bit while they’re still catching their breaths. Then Regulus gestures to Dorcas to help him up. Dorcas drags his left arm around her shoulders and, to Regulus’s delight, James wraps his own around Regulus’s waist. He catalogs the pressure and proximity and it’s a hell of an anesthetic before he’s on his feet (foot) and James steps away.

Regulus balances himself long enough to pull his arm away from Dorcas and tuck the Snitch into James’s hand.

“Here. You win. I’ll see you tonight.”

And then he limps away with Dorcas at his side and James staring at his back.

“What was that about?” Dorcas asks with no attempt to disguise her interest.

“Nothing, just a stupid bet.”

“Oh really? And what exactly-”

“Tell you what,” he interrupts her, “I’ll share the parameters of our bet when you can score more than three goals on Gryffindor.”

She groans.

“That was low, Reg.”

“Looked just about right to me.”

Dorcas chuckles and helps him into the capable hands of Madame Pomfrey.

By the time Regulus leaves the Hospital Wing that evening, dinner is over and he assumes the highly alluded-to Gryffindor party is well underway.

His ankle was a relatively easy fix. His fingers had taken a bit more work. Madame Pomfrey had tutted about a shattered bone and subjected him to the joyous experience of Skele-gro. Regulus remains convinced that violent fantasies in response to the unbearable sensation of bones reforming is a mild reaction on his part.

He’s still a bit unsteady on his feet as he makes his way up the many, many stairs to the Astronomy Tower, and he’s kind of cursing James’s name, or at least the Slytherin Quidditch team, by the time he makes it to the top.

Sunset has long passed and the temperature has dropped significantly, even more so with the breeze. Regulus pulls his arms around himself, careful of his bandaged fingers and new bones.

Framed by their usual arch, James is leaned forward against the railing with that denim jacket Regulus wishes he didn’t like so much thrown over a festive Gryffindor sweater. The wind ruffles his hair and he’s toying with his fingernails idly. Waiting for Regulus.

It makes for such a simple scene—an attractive young man set against a lovely night sky, not a care in the world save for when his companion will arrive—that Regulus can almost imagine it with a romantic spin. He’s sure that at some future point in time when everything’s gone to hell, he’ll recall this image right here as the title card of all his stolen halcyon days with James.

Maybe James senses him there because he stands and turns. He doesn’t seem to know if he should smile or not and instead he just says, “Regulus.”

It draws Regulus forward like a magnet. He comes to stand in front of James and for a moment they both just look.

They haven’t spoken seriously since the Transfiguration practice and James’s plea to Regulus and Regulus’s curt dismissal. Regulus tells himself it had to happen; James couldn’t go around thinking Regulus was something he could save, something that needed saving in the first place. So it was better for everyone that they got that out of the way.

Then James’s eyes flicker to Regulus’s hand and his face melts.

“Oh, your poor fingers. I’d forgotten, are they alright?”

Regulus flexes them a bit. “They’ll be fine, James-”

“And your ankle! Merlin, I’m an idiot and I made you walk up all those stairs!”

James looks to be in real distress now with both hands buried in his hair.

“James, really, it was mended within the hour. It’s just a bit sore.”

“Well, next time feel free to send me an owl telling me to fuck off, alright?”

“If I’d known that was an option-”

“Yeah, yeah,” James cuts him off with a knowing grin. “I walked into that one.”

Regulus wraps his arms a bit tighter and looks around.

“So?”

“So?” James repeats.

“Why am I here, James? Was the punishment just making me walk up the stairs?”

James tucks his hands into the pockets of his (flattering) jacket and rocks back on his heels.

“Well, this is actually a bit embarrassing cause it doesn’t look like it’s going to pan out.”

Regulus waits for him to continue.

James shoves a hand in his hair.

“I had hoped to introduce you to someone, I just thought you’d get along. But it doesn’t really matter cause they didn’t show.”

Regulus had not been expecting this.

“Who, James?”

James’s face takes on a kind of self-deprecating grin.

“Well, I come up here sometimes cause there’s this cat, and we’re sort of friends and we hang out. You’d actually probably like each other cause- okay, what?”

Regulus can’t catalogue whatever is on James’s face at the moment cause he’s started laughing and he just can’t stop.

He manages to gasp, “A- a cat?" before he’s doubled over and laughing so hard he thinks he’s going to cry.

He hears James say, “What’s wrong with a cat?” and that’s just hilarious cause there’s nothing wrong with a cat, nothing at all.

Except for when you’re trying to introduce it to itself.

That makes Regulus laugh even harder. Of course James Potter’s first thought upon encountering two imperious, standoffish creatures would be “They should meet.” And the fact that he was going to introduce them like they’re at a debutante ball? Oh, that’s just too good.

There are literal tears leaking out of Regulus’s eyes and he can’t remember if he’s ever laughed this hard in his life.

James seems a bit unsure what to do with himself when confronted with Regulus losing his mind over something that’s objectively not that funny. Regulus just counts himself lucky that he, the only person in the entire world who gets this joke, is here to enjoy it.

Regulus finally pulls himself together and wipes his face. The smile that’s been so hard to stitch onto his mouth these past few months now feels overworked and sensitive, like the slightest thing will call it back.

James leans back against the rail, smiling at Regulus’s antics, and says, “I guess it is kind of silly.”

Regulus shakes his head and leans forward against the rail next to James.

“That bastard cat. You give it a piece of my mind next time you see it. Can’t believe it would stand you up like that.”

James chuckles and turns around so they’re looking over the grounds together. There are whisps of matte clouds tonight and the wind sends them skidding across the sky and over stars. Everything looks so much smaller in this body, and Regulus thinks that he likes the Tower and this view better as the cat when he feels dwarfed by his surroundings.

It’s not so bad though, to be able to stand here next to James. Especially when he shifts and presses one warm shoulder into Regulus’s.

He must feel Regulus shiver because he looks over with that concerned expression Regulus knows so well by now.

“Merlin, why didn’t you bring a coat? You must be freezing.”

“Oh, I was actually in the infirmary for a stint. Something to do with the worst game of Quidditch ever played, but I missed my chance to grab proper clothes. Sorry.”

James mutters something that sounds like “Never a straight answer with you,” but Regulus is too preoccupied with a sweeping motion and the sudden blanket of warmth around his shoulders.

James’s jacket retains the heat from his body in the fleece and smells like pine and Regulus would be just fine dying right here if he could have it his way. He clutches it with his one working hand and watches James take in the sight of him in his jacket.

“Won’t you be cold?”

“Nah, I run hot. Always have.”

Regulus is far beyond the rules he’s set for himself at this point. There was nothing about denying chivalric gestures and this whole night feels so surreal already that when he decides he misses the feeling of James’s shoulder against his, he throws the no touching rule out the window and leans into him.

James looks down at him and away again quickly, but Regulus catches him trying to force the corners of his mouth back into line.

Regulus would love to know what’s going on in James’s head right now. He doesn’t fool himself into thinking James could reciprocate Regulus’s childish infatuation, but sometimes he looks at Regulus so fondly that he has to wonder.

He chalks it up to James just being an affectionate person, the kind of person with such an excess of love that they have a bit to spare for sixteen-year-olds with limited lifespans.

Besides, Regulus is quite used to harboring and hiding devotion for people uninterested in returning it. He’s been doing it for so long now that it feels like the natural way of things. Come to think of it, he has no idea what he’d do if James were to turn around one day and send it all right back at him.

So it’s for the best this way.

They stand shoulder to shoulder in the wind and under the stars for a few quiet minutes.

Then James decides to ruin it.

“So, the worst game of Quidditch ever played, huh?”

“James, I will pitch myself off this tower and take your jacket with me if you make me talk about that game.”

Chapter Text

If Hogwarts was stumped by the helpless, afflicted version of James they received at the beginning of the year, then they definitely don’t know what to with this jubilant, indomitable version of him that they’re dealing with now.

He feels like everything’s going his way, and now that he’s survived the tribulations of September and October, they just might be. Sirius and Remus are still Sirius&Remus but now in a happier, much more put-a-tie-on-the-goddamn-door kind of way. Peter’s back to his usual levels of good-humored distress, more exasperated with Sirius and Remus’s antics than anything else, but he gets to complain loudly and often to the girls and anyone who will listen. Lily had shown James the gorgeous charm bracelet she had decided on for Mary’s Christmas gift, the charms of which are actual charms, and Marlene has taken to sliding the phrase “my girlfriend” into any sentence where it can plausibly fit and even some where it clearly doesn’t.

James’s friends are happy so he really can’t ask for much more. He received a letter from his parents with an attached photo of them holding each other and waving at the camera from some peak in the Andes; they had made the return trip safely and expressed their excitement for James and Sirius to come home in two short weeks. James had smiled to himself and tucked the photo into his pocket to show Regulus at their Transfiguration practice that evening.

The practices are going well, which James judges by gauging Regulus’s levels of paranoid determination at the end of each session. Sometimes he seems like someone’s holding a wand to his head and he has to get everything about transfiguration down perfectly or he’s going to be in for some nasty end. Other times he seems to release some perpetual tension off his shoulders when they figure out a particularly tricky bit. James still doesn’t know his real reasons for doing what he’s doing, but he’s committed to seeing Regulus relieved and confident by the time he inevitably walks out the door.

The occlumency… well, the occlumency’s been hard. No one ever said it was easy. (In fact, he remembers quite clearly Regulus saying the exact opposite.) But James is nothing if not determined and he’s been working on his shields consistently. Everything Regulus had said was true; after enough time (and enough mistakes), the shields are becoming second nature and are taking on a form that had made James smile when he realized what it was. He can’t wait to show Regulus.

And that’s the other thing: Regulus. James hasn’t failed to notice how much he enjoys their time together, and he can safely say he thinks Regulus does too. Never in a million years would he have bet that he’d form a rather deep and sincere friendship with his best friend’s estranged little brother founded on scholarship, experimentation, dry humor, and many hours spent in dark rooms and quiet company together.

He can’t imagine doing this with any of his other friends, all of whom inspire some electric energy in James. And that energy is there with Regulus too—how can it not be when it’s just a part of James?—but there’s something about him that quells it, shapes it into something more thoughtful and sustainable. James finds himself leaving their sessions together reinvigorated, full of questions and interest in the world. Especially in people. In a person. Okay, in Regulus.

It's been a surprising but welcome alteration to the normal fabric of James’s years at Hogwarts, and he finds himself wishing it could have happened sooner. He wishes he’d known Regulus as a nervous first year or as a grumpy fourth year. He wishes he could know more of Regulus now, wants him to complain about his friends with James or tell him about some book he’s reading or just answer honestly when James asks him how his day was. But despite how he’s noticeably warmed towards James over the past months, Regulus still maintains some barrier of mystery and secrecy that he just can’t seem to penetrate. It’s driving him up a wall.

James has also kept up with alone time that he will freely admit is not really alone at all. He’d done it to escape Sirius and Remus in the beginning, but now he does it to give them some privacy. Plus, he really enjoys spending time with the cat. It’s become the one place where he can let all his guards down, something about the elevation and the night sky and the reliable judgment of the cat providing a safety net he’s never had before. There’s no way for James to screw this up when it’s just him and the cat getting on each other’s nerves.

He's on his way there now with the star book and his jacket in preparation for the cold. The last days of November have stair-stepped their way into brittle temperatures that he feels keenly from the top of the Astronomy Tower. When he steps out of the arch and looks for the cat, it’s clear that it is feeling them too.

The cat has curled itself into a tight black ball and tucked as deep into a corner of the ledge as it can possibly go. The silver eyes peek out at James from over its tail wrapped around its nose and front paws.

James drops the book on the terrace next to the arch and plants his hands on his hips.

“Nice of you to show up.”

The cat stares.

“I have a bone to pick with you.” James sits himself on the ground next to the book and leans back against the wall. “Honestly, the one time I actually count on you being here and you can’t even make an appearance. Now I just look like a nutter talking about some elusive cat I hang out with that really exists, I swear!”

He’s not actually mad at the cat, but it would fly in the face of his principles to let it off the hook without shaming it first.

James gets himself settled on the ground with a cushioning charm and several warming charms. Between that and the stone corner bracketing him on two sides and blocking the wind, he’s actually quite comfortable.

He pulls the star book into his lap and flips to the constellation they’d left off on. He can feel the cat watching him from its perch, but it makes no move to join him.

“You know, it’s much warmer down here. There’s some benefit to having working hands and access to magic.”

The cat’s ears flatten.

“Fine, suit yourself.” He turns his attention back to the book. “I’ll just read about Equuleus and tell you what I learn next time. Or, Merlin, you know it’ll actually be even colder next time so I suppose I’ll update you in the spring. When it’s warm. You know. Like it is down here.”

Then he waits.

It’s futile to try and hide his smile when he sees the cat rise out of the corner of his eye. It creeps over the top of the arch and leaps to the ledge on James’s side. James knows for a fact that the warming charms don’t extend that far so he just demurely flips the page and keeps waiting.

The cat jumps down to the outcrop just a bit above James’s head on his left.

James gives it a friendly smile and goes back to (not) reading.

A gust of wind whips around the curved wall of the tower and the cat tenses on its perch.

Almost there.

James is just about to flip the page again when he sees a flash of black.

He freezes when he feels the weight of the cat carefully balanced on his left shoulder and ducks his head out of instinct as the cat steps behind him and works it’s way across his shoulders so that it’s head pokes around on James’s right.

Then it drapes itself over the back of James’s neck like a judgmental scarf.

Its tail and back legs dangle over James’s left shoulder while it nests its head on top of its front paws next to James’s right ear.

James isn’t sure his heart is beating. He can feel the effusive heat and gentle press of the cat’s breathing against the back of his neck. Its whiskers twitch and brush against his jaw and for a moment James can’t do anything but stare blankly in front of him.

Then, of course, he has to gloat.

“Oh look at that, was I right for once? Is it warmer down here? Crazy how that happens every so often.”

The cat’s tail swishes and if he could see its eyes he’s sure they’d be narrowed.

“It’s almost like I have good ideas and you should listen to me sometimes. Then maybe, just maybe, you’d figure out months into this friendship that I’m doing this for your benefit and there’s actually room for both of us to-“

But James doesn’t get to finish that thought because the cat lunges forward and sticks a furry black paw right in his mouth.

James is sure his response to that probably looked something like a seizure to a bystander, but he manages to whack the paw away.

In the grand scheme of strategies employed to get James to shut the fuck up, it’s an effective one.

He twists his head to stare at the cat, completely speechless.

The cat stares back as it slowly wipes its paw against his jacket.

James looks back out at the treetops.

Then he lets out a single hysterical laugh. There’s some joke in there about cats and tongues that James’s brain is too disoriented to carve out.

Then he clears his throat and says, “Alright, I think you made your point.”

The cat seems satisfied with that. It settles its head back on its paws.

James finds his place in the book and begins reading aloud.

They finish the chapter on Equuleus but the cat makes no move to leave so James keeps going on to Gemini. James reads by the light of his wand and eventually the rhythm of the cat’s breathing slows and lengthens. James takes a chance and leans his head back to rest against the stone wall behind him. With the warmth of the cat wrapped around his neck and the charms fading but still in place, James eases the book closed in his lap and shifts his gaze to the stars.

He can spot more constellations now, able to pick out their vague shapes from the smattering of light shining in from the cosmos. James thinks it’s kind of poetic that when confronted with their insignificance, humans chose instead to project their own stories onto the universe. To pull meaning from chaos.

But James lets them have their meaning. He doesn’t feel the least bit insignificant right now. He feels chosen, if only by this cat who he’s spent months winning over through persistence and care.

If one little creature trusts him enough to fall asleep in his presence…

Then. Well.

That’s plenty good enough for James.

*

A week and a half before the holidays, James makes his way to the seventh floor after dinner with a spring in his step. He has to be the most cheerful person to ever dive headfirst into exam season, and he’s received more than one dirty look from haggard students weighed down by armloads of books. He feels for them, honestly, but they really should try having everything in their lives go exactly right for once. It does wonders for the constitution.

James summons the door to the Come and Go Room and shuts it behind him. He finds Regulus already there, curled up in his usual chair lit from one side by the fire. He hasn’t changed out of his uniform but he’s loosened the emerald tie a bit underneath his sweater. James takes no small amount of satisfaction from the fact that Regulus can now relax enough in his presence to present this less rigid version of himself. It’s taken long enough.

As the holiday approaches, James has noticed Regulus slipping into another bout of visible weariness. He’s ridden a pendulum of looking successively better and worse all semester, and James figures the stress of exams might be taking its toll. He hopes Regulus has the time to recoup over the break, but it sounds like a joke even as he hears himself think it. For now, James has done what he can to give him the space to be tired and worn down, a space where he can let himself feel the exhaustion without having to deny it around James.

Regulus looks up and closes the journal in his lap. His face does something that James looks forward to every time he sees him. It’s not a smile (James would like that) but a more subtle, instinctive rearranging of sharp features into a kind of soft expectancy. Sort of like Oh, you’re here, good.

There’s a chance James has put a little too much thought into this.

James has no compunctions about smiling at him, though and does so freely as he lands in his chair. He asks “Alright?” and Regulus responds with a quieter “Alright.”

Then James leans forward with his elbows on his knees and looks at Regulus.

They stare at each other. James can’t stop grinning.

Regulus, to his credit, can maintain one hell of a straight face.

But he sighs and says pointedly, “Is there something you’d like to share with me, Ja-”

“Why yes, there is! Thank you for asking, Regulus.”

James leans back in his chair while Regulus rubs his eyes and mutters something like “What have I done?”

When Regulus has had his moment he meets James’s eyes.

“I assume you’ve made progress on you shields?”

“Yup.” James pops the p at the end and makes no effort to stop his knee from bouncing. He feels like he did as a little kid when his parents were packing up bags to take him on vacation with them, the same sense of fizzy anticipation.

There’s a sort of understanding between them that this will be their last occlumency lesson before the New Year. Like it or not, they’ll both be too bogged down in exams for the next week to carve time out to meet. So James has worked on crafting his shields as well as he could for this night and he kind of needs Regulus to see all that he’s done cause he’s pretty proud of himself.

Regulus adjusts his posture and places his (thankfully healed) hands on his ankles.

“Alright, let’s see what you’ve come up with.”

James centers himself and gives his shields one last once over. Then he locks eyes with Regulus like usual.

James decided a while ago that Regulus’s whole thing about not liking people in your mind has its merits, but James thinks there’s room for exceptions. Not only does Regulus’s presence feel natural, James kind of loves it. His mind had come to recognize him when he would brush up against his shields-in-progress or splash around in the front of his consciousness; he feels a little spark of joy every time like his brain says Friend! and welcomes his addition.

James can feel him now, a slim collection of the essence of Regulus: all stoic and officious and innovative and cunning and, secretly, watchful and impish. If James had known from the beginning how to parse all the distilled qualities of Regulus in this form on the pared-down reality of the mental plane, he probably would have seen past his masks far sooner.

Regulus brushes one hand over the edge of his shield and then steps in.

In, because Regulus was right about that too when he said the shields were reflective of the person who crafted them.

And James can sense Regulus’s wonder as he absorbs what James has created.

After the initial flimsy blockade, James’s shields had begun to take on an odd sort of configuration. It had started as what felt to James like a grove of saplings, little sprouts poking out of the ground to trip you up should you try to enter his mind. Not very effective (James thought this in Regulus’s voice), but still. Something.

After another week or so of testing what parts of himself he could put towards the shield, James got with the program.

The saplings grew.

The trees spread.

They developed tough bark and boughs of needles that interwove far above.

There became a sort of forest floor gnarled by thick roots and pads of moss.

The trees grew towering and densely packed and the space between them felt charged and aware.

When James realized, he had thrown himself into it with glee, less of a construction and more of a cultivation. With time and experimentation, he propagated a mass of woods, ancient and alive. They were unsurprisingly similar to the Forbidden Forest, the place where he felt most like himself on nights spent running as Prongs. To step into it and look around, there was no discernable beginning or end; the edge disappeared as soon as you encountered it.

It was just endless trees and a low sheet of mist and still air.

Of course, nothing about it was actually endless. Regulus had told him before that even the most accomplished occlumens couldn’t produce a shield of infinite depth. James’s forest was more like an illusion; an intruder tries to break into his mind and instead finds themselves lost in the woods. It was one of a few tricks he had built in upon Regulus’s recommendation. But he’d let him discover the rest.

He can feel Regulus moving slowly through the trees, tracing a finger along their trunks and digging his hands into the damp moss. James holds it all as still as he can; it’s a bit like he’s cut himself open and allowed Regulus to stand over him and gaze in at the lines of his ribs, his beating heart, the delicate web of veins hoarding his lifeblood.

It’s much more intimate than he’s ever felt with Regulus in his head somehow.

But Regulus is careful as he always is. He steps over roots until he knocks into one. James flinches slightly in his body, not necessarily from pain but more like sensation. He distantly hears Regulus say, “The roots…” and then sees him smile.

“They’re all connected,” Regulus says. “The whole thing’s a warning system.”

And James smiles too because of course he figured it out, clever thing that he is.

The second of a few tricks: the trees and the roots of James’s shield forest communicate with each other, track the movements of an intruder so he knows when they’re there even if they don’t want him to, unless they can avoid them all.

He has plans to incorporate the moss, to add something like birds and rope the whole thing into one collective organism at his disposal, but that can come later.

For now, he wants to see if Regulus can get out.

Though Regulus may not think so, James actually listens closely to everything he says, and he remembers from his lecture on different shields the golden rule: They all have their tricks. The form of the shields themselves determine how to navigate them, but James saw his trick coming before the forest had fully developed. It had made sense to him, harkening back to some riddle he’d heard once when he was a child.

How far can you walk into the woods?

Half way.

Because after that, you were walking out.

It takes confidence and tenacity to make it past James’s shield. You have to pick a path and stick to it because the best way to get out is straight through. It’s easy to get turned around or discouraged; millennia of nursery rhymes and folktales warning against the dangers of losing yourself in the woods have all piled up to make the serene slice of forest surrounding James’s mind into something foreboding and impossible.

Regulus makes his way through Jame’s shield slowly but steadily. He doesn’t veer off, and James can sense some ingrained respect for either the nobility of nature or James’s creation or both keeping him on course.

It only feels right when he steps out onto the shore of James’s mind.

James is sure he can read his thoughts with the way they’re gently lapping at his presence, sure he feels the anticipation and the curiosity as he waits for his reaction. He wonders if he can feel the current of gratitude, so thankful that Regulus bothered to teach him this whole wonderful thing at all.

Then Regulus disappears back into his shield and makes his way out.

James refocuses himself in his body and gives Regulus time to do the same.

For a moment they just sit listening to the crackle of the fire. Regulus looks distant and thoughtful.

“James… that was marvelous.”

He meets James’s stare and he’s so openly awestruck that James almost feels the urge to pull back. Almost.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. It was… alive. It was so very you.”

And that.

James feels understood when he hears that.

It’s just an easy recognition of one person from another. It should be tacit, but James supposes there’s always some fear when you meet someone in another form. Fear that they might see you differently to how they usually do and decide that this version is not for them.

But Regulus just sits there, having said all he needs to, having told James that he saw him on another plane and knew it was him.

And James thinks he’s in the presence of something very rare. Something he wants to be very careful with.

He drags a hand through his hair, thinks about asking if his shields will work, what he can do to improve them. But he knows they’ll work and he doesn’t want to pull this conversation in a direction that will take them back to business as usual.

So instead he says, “Can I know about yours then?”

Regulus stares at him for a long time.

He pulls his legs down from his chair and shifts closer to the edge.

Then he holds out his hand to James and says, “I want to try something.”

James has heard the words many times before, in the Transfiguration classroom right before Regulus does something he’d never have thought of and breaks through an obstacle that had been stumping them for hours.

And James trusts him, completely and eagerly, so he scoots forward on his chair until their knees touch and places his hand in Regulus’s.

He can feel Regulus back in his shield, working through it with more confidence this time.

When he emerges in his thoughts though, James feels him more clearly than ever. Probably because Regulus is scooping pieces of him up, gathering handfuls of his consciousness to himself in a way James didn’t realize was possible.

At first he resists; it’s like someone’s threaded a string through his stomach and is tugging him around. But then he feels Regulus squeeze his hand and he trusts him. He makes the decision to follow.

He’s being pulled through his own shields which is weird enough until they get to the edge and something happens that he can only describe as the sudden flipping sensation of falling off a broom. He thinks his body sucks in a sharp breath but Regulus holds on to him, both his consciousness and his hand and James coils himself as close to him as he can and then-

They land.

Somewhere.

Regulus is gone and it’s just James and he doesn’t know how he knows but he’s not in his own head anymore.

Until he realizes that Regulus isn’t gone, he’s just not accessible.

Because in front of James is a different shield.

Regulus’s shield.

James feels this small part of his mind stretched away from the rest, a lone explorer on the cusp of Regulus’s consciousness. The only thing between them is a wall, taller than anything James has ever seen or could ever imagine. So tall that it blocks out what might be a kind of configured sun, something that adds to the whole scene around him. Between the sun and the salty breeze and a kind of rhythmic static sound like the swelling and receding of waves beyond the wall, James has a guess. But he’s not sure until he approaches the wall and runs one immaterial hand along its surface.

Fine grains glitter and tumble away from it and James laughs.

It’s a sandcastle.

Regulus has built a monolithic sandcastle to protect his mind from the worst the world has to offer.

And… there’s just something so innocent and vulnerable about the whole thing.

James imagines Regulus as a child, with a rounder face and softer eyes and still those same curls, alone in his unfeeling house trying to come up with the strongest, safest thing he could think of.

He imagines that maybe Regulus had gone on a trip to the seaside back when Sirius was still there, that he and his brother had been allowed to play in the sand and stack it into structures that the waves eventually ate up.

And Regulus, with no one to guide him as he’s done for James all these months, started shaping small walls of sand around his mind because they were the only thing he knew how to build, watching time and time again as they crumbled over the years, but learning and adapting until he sits here, sixteen-years-old, behind an impregnable fortress of memories and necessity and sheer determination.

James feels a strange reverence standing at the base of this wall. It’s like some monument to a childhood he wasn’t privileged enough to see, and all he has to go off of now are the defenses it spawned.

He can tell just by placing a hand against it that the shield is far thicker than his own, material or not. The sand is packed and damp and when James knocks against it, the vibrations are swallowed up and dispersed in an instant.

It’s deceptive and solid but malleable; James imagines Regulus can repair it on a whim and manipulate it how he likes, and maybe James wasn’t expecting this but, like his own shield, it fits him so well.

James smiles and rests his forehead and one hand against the wall, lets the cool of the sand sink into his consciousness.

And with the steady, gentle pressure from his hand, the wall begins to give.

It’s slow, just a slight depression that, when James takes his hand away, leaves an imprint in the wet sand.

But James laughs again because he knows he’s found Regulus’s trick. And this one is obvious now too because hasn’t he already realized that Regulus needs time and patience? That he waits for the other person to give first and then decides if he’ll do the same? And isn’t he just petty enough to build a shield that requires potential intruders to forfeit their weapons and use a gentle touch, the very last thing they would think to try?

It’s the cleverest shield ever created in James’s opinion. And it’s no surprise at all that Regulus is the one who’s thought of it.

James knows this is far beyond what he’d hoped to learn about Regulus and his shields, so he doesn’t try to work his way through. He doesn’t think he’d be allowed to even if he did.

Instead he steps back and away and feels this little piece of himself teetering with some great void behind it. He allows himself to tip over and flip back into himself.

In his body, his head spins and he slumps back into his chair even as he holds onto Regulus’s hand.

Regulus watches him in that way of his, cautious and unrevealing.

James wants so badly to reel him in by his hand, to hug him and hold him or somehow just get as close as he felt to him standing on the edge of his mind.

So he does.

It’s a bit awkward, seeing as James is pretty sure he’s stuck in his chair and his legs couldn’t hold him if he tried, but he pulls Regulus out of his seat by his hand and across the short distance between them. Then he wraps his arms around his waist and presses his cheek against the soft fabric of his sweater and doesn’t let go.

Regulus is tense for a moment, his hands hovering above James like he’s afraid to touch him. But then he relaxes slowly. He leans his weight against James and drapes one arm around his shoulders. The other hand goes to the back of his neck and a bit in his hair. James can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine at that.

He also can’t help the broad smile and soft laugh that escapes him.

He closes his eyes and lets Regulus hold him and squeezes Regulus tighter so he knows he’s okay.

*

Hogwarts gets its first snow of the season a week before the holiday. Most students are too busy with exams to enjoy it, but the occasional snowman appears in the courtyard, waving its stick arms at passersby.

Sirius had been disappointed that it fell after the November full moon; Padfoot always loves the snow and the crackling frost that settles deeper in the forest. But Peter had been adamant that it was for the best. In his words, “There’s nothing like pitting a half-kilo rat against a metric ton of frozen water to gain a better understanding of natural selection.”

Four days later, the Marauders drag each other out of a grueling Potions exam. They’re collectively bleary-eyed and braindead and not quite ready to put their minds to thinking about their Transfiguration exam tomorrow.

“Anyone fancy sneaking out for a drink tonight?” Sirius asks with the same kind of dazed trauma as a person who’s narrowly escaped a guillotine.

“I suppose it’s only appropriate we drink to our deaths,” Peter mutters.

Sirius takes that as agreement and turns his attention to James.

“Prongs? One for the road? I heard it’s supposed to make you a better test taker,” he grins.

James snorts and says, “I’ll let you figure that one out. I don’t think I can spare the time.”

He lets them think it’ll be time spent studying. In truth, James has barely had to touch his Transfiguration materials all semester. The extra practice he’s gotten with Regulus has been so involved and so far beyond even what they’re learning for NEWTS that the whole thing’s been a cakewalk. He’s gotten a few knowing glances from McGonagall, and he’d bet a good deal of money that Regulus’s semester of Transfiguration has been just as easy.

It’s not that James wouldn’t enjoy an evening of drinking with his friends and Rosmerta, who’s always been a good sport about them showing up out of nowhere to bother her for a night. But James is eager to cram in as many hours with the cat as he can before the holiday when he won’t see it for over two weeks. He already knows he’s going to miss its astounding personality and sleek silhouette.

Sirius just says, “Boooo, boring.” Then he sidles up to Remus and plasters on a sickly sweet grin.

“Moooony?”

Remus stares straight on as they walk.

“Sirius?”

“You’ll join me won’t you?”

“You know, Sirius…” And at Remus’s tone, theatrical and considering, Sirius backs away a step.

“No.”

“We do still have that chapter you said we’d revise together…”

“No we don’t. Stop it.”

“And if that gets done, you still haven’t packed your goddamn trunk…”

“Moony, enough.”

“And, Godric, think of all the Christmas gifts you’ve yet to purchase. Have you gotten me a gift yet, Pads?”

Sirius groans.

“Remus, come on-”

“My, there is just so much to do, isn’t there?”

“Moony-”

But Sirius’s sentence is cut off by Remus scooping him up by the waist and hauling him over one shoulder.

Sirius shrieks and heads turn towards them, but it wouldn’t be a year if the Marauders didn’t plague the hallways with their public displays of codependency.

“Well, I guess we better get right to it, Pads. No time like the present.”

Sirius sighs and resigns himself to his fate, propping his elbow on Remus’s back and his chin on his hand as Remus carries him away towards the common room, but James can see the smirk he can’t hide.

He waves morosely at James and Peter before they turn the corner and disappear.

“Well that’s that done, I guess,” Peter says. “I get first dibs on Lily until 5:30 so I’m going to go save my Transfiguration grade. I’ll be in the library if someone’s died or something. But only tell me if it’s someone I like or someone famous.”

With that he waves a hand in James’s direction and peels away.

James just smiles and shakes his head. He’s got some weird friends.

James ends up helping Marlene and Dorcas out with their revision for a few hours. Despite the both of them being formidable witches, it seems that neither one has a knack for Transfiguration. Dorcas plows through the theory and practice with a persistence fueled more by the personal vendetta she seems to hold against every object set before her, while Marlene has adopted a rather nihilistic attitude about it all because “What even is a compass and what does it matter if it exists in the world in its natural form or as a formerly avian creature?”

James thinks it’s awfully close to the eleventh hour for such philosophical musings.

Dinner is the usual agitated affair during exam week. No one is willing to part from their books long enough to actually enjoy the meal and they all end up shoveling food into their mouths like someone is going to come along and try to take it from them.

Lily has scared the common room into a 24-hour revision lockdown, and while she’s posted up in a corner with her textbooks spread across a whole table, James isn’t really needed to keep the peace.

So he grabs the star book and a blanket and climbs the stairs to the Astronomy Tower.

If he didn’t know any better, he would say the cat is also making the most of the few nights left in the semester. It’s been here every evening for the past four days, and they’ve sat together under the protection of James’s warming charms and read.

After that first evening when the cat slept across his shoulders, it’s like some barrier has dissolved between them. Or at least James chooses to believe that and not that he’s just an easily accessible source of heat. James ordinarily doesn’t mind the cold, but this year he fucking loves it if it means he has an excuse to bribe the cat closer with warming charms. He’s cleared the snow from around their arch and the cat creeps down to meet him where he sits with the book and the blanket he started bringing after the storm.

Some nights the cat roams around the little area while James reads, the twitch of its ears letting him know that it’s listening. Other nights it drapes itself over his shins or sits next to him pressed against his hip so it can look at the illustrations in the book. James likes those nights best because then the cat lets him pet two fingers down the smooth fur of its head and neck.

Tonight feels special though. It might be the last night James can find time to see the cat, though he’s determined to at least try tomorrow. But with the train leaving on Friday and their last exam and everything else that has to get done between now and then, he’s not sure it’ll happen.

It’s bad enough that he hasn’t seen Regulus in almost five days. Sure, they’ve passed in the hall and James always steals a glance of his tired face at meals, but they haven’t talked and it’s kind of getting to him. Something changed between them at their last occlumency lesson when Regulus had walked through James’s shield forest and James had gazed up at that sandcastle. He constantly feels restless, like whatever he’s doing at any given moment isn’t the right thing because Regulus isn’t there and he needs to go find him and pull him close like they’d been that night.

James doesn’t know what to make of it, but alongside the restlessness there’s a little kernel of loneliness that he has never once felt in his life. He’s still got his friends and he’s days away from going home to his parents, but the loneliness persists. It’s specific to Regulus, can only be assuaged by him, and it’s put James in the odd position of being surrounded by people he deeply loves and somehow still feeling alone.

The cat helps a bit though. It kind of reminds James of Regulus with its aloof temperament and favor meted out sparingly.

When the cat appears on the ledge tonight, James offers it a smile. He casts the charms and sits down and spreads the heavy blanket across his legs.

The cat jumps down and makes it way over to sit at his side. James opens the book and begins to read.

They’re halfway through reading about Orpheus’s lyre when the cat steps up on James’s leg and crawls into his lap. James runs out of breath mid-sentence as it curls up and puts its head down.

He feels a bit like someone’s placed a bomb on him, but like most instances where the cat does something that shocks the words out of his mouth, he takes his cue to treat it like it’s unremarkable. (Even if it feels like it’s made James’s Top 10 Most Remarkable Moments list).

James continues reading more quietly. Every move he makes to turn a page or adjust the book feels like a terrible disruption to the cat, but by the end of the chapter its breathing has evened and those silver eyes have closed.

James removes the book slowly until it’s just him sitting under a blanket with the cat on his lap. He brings one tentative hand to brush down the cat’s neck and along its spine.

He smiles when he hears a faint purr.

James pets the cat as it sleeps and looks out over all the snow, drifted on the ground and clumped on the dark trees of the Forbidden Forest.

There’s nothing to say and nothing to do.

James doesn’t mind it one bit.

He thinks it might be possible that three months later, he’s finally gotten the hang of alone time.

They stay like that for a long while and eventually James’s hand comes to rest on the cat’s back, his thumb brushing rhythmically through its fur. He feels such an incredible fondness for this little animal. It pushes against the inside of his chest like a balloon inflating and he thinks if it gets any bigger it’s going to bruise his heart. He’d probably let it too.

James gazes down at the cat; he’d really like to tell someone about it but it’d be so hard to convey just how special their friendship is.

It’s as he’s gazing down and his thumb brushes its fur back that James notices something.

On the lighter skin beneath its fur, there’s a white line. He runs his thumb over it and feels it slightly raised, so he traces it from beginning to end. It stretches from the cat’s spine to about halfway down its side.

James furrows his brow and looks again. Then he moves his hand up towards its shoulder and pushes the fur back and there’s another one, smaller and running in a different direction but unmistakably present.

James finds more; some are kind of pinkish and sink into the skin while others remain faint and white and press out. He can feel his breaths shortening as he counts them—eight just on this side—and his throat aches with the force of holding his emotions back.

Because beneath the perfect black fur and unwavering exterior, James’s cat is covered in scars.

It’s no wonder he’s never noticed before with how distant the cat’s held itself until recently. And there’s certainly no way to tell under its fluid, inky coat.

But now that he’s seen them, James knows they’re there and it’s just so upsetting to think that he’s spent all this time with his little friend and had no idea someone had hurt it. And who would do that? Who would hurt a cat? The scars don’t look like they came from another animal, none in sets of four like claws or curved like bite marks, James would know. They’re individual and varying in depth and age. And they’re clearly intentional.

The implications mix righteous rage with James’s distress because that means the cat had been stuck somewhere with someone who had periodically abused it for a long time. Was it still there, still in danger? James hasn’t seen any signs of violence on it since he’s met it, but that doesn’t mean a whole lot.

James brushes the fur back on that very first scar he’d stumbled across, a long, old one that probably took ages to heal. The fact that the wounds had scarred at all means that they’d been magically inflicted or not properly healed or both. He isn’t familiar with the mechanics of applying magical remedies to animals and if they’d even work, but the existence of scars always points to some unresolved trauma.

James doesn’t notice the cat stirring beneath his hand until its head shoots up and it’s staring him down with accusatory silver eyes. He looks back with the dawning realization that probably the only reason he’d gotten as far as seeing the cat’s scars was due to its slumber.

Because now it springs to its feet and dashes out from under his hand.

“Wait!” James blurts.

The cat leaps to an outcropping and up the side of the tower before he can even toss the blanket aside and scramble to his feet.

“Wait, please! I didn’t mean-”

But the cat has reached its ledge and sprints out of sight.

James stumbles out of the barrier of warming charms and the sudden wall of cold steals the breath from his lungs. Snow soaks through his socks and the cuffs of his trousers but he staggers his way through it and around the side of the tower.

The cat is nowhere in sight.

“Would you please come back?” he yells and his breath clouds in front of him.

Nothing responds to him, and no cats appear on the ledge.

James stands there in the snow with his arms wrapped around himself and a kind of numb confusion working its way through his system. Beneath it all is the sense that despite their progress and the serene space they’d crafted together and his absolute positivity that he had this one thing he couldn’t possibly bungle, James might have managed to fuck it up anyway.

*

Exams come to their inevitable end.

There’s a kind of collective feverish sigh of relief on Thursday night, and dinner is a much lighter affair.

The Gryffindor seventh years sit together as usual and bask in a kind of shared nostalgia the younger years have no business understanding.

Lily has deigned to speak to other people again now that exams are over and tells them all about her plans to meet up with Mary after Christmas and spend a few days in London. James catches her eye over his glass of pumpkin juice and shares a look of mutual awareness that turns Lily’s face red.

Mary seems equally excited about the whole thing, though she mourns that they won’t be in the city for New Year’s Eve. That is because, Marlene leans in to inform them, they will be joining her and Dorcas for an excursion to Ireland. They promise that they’re going to hit the highlights and enjoy some premium girl time together: taking pictures, gossiping, performing ancient blood magic, all the staples.

(The Marauders have a silent discussion of pointed looks between the four of them as to whether they’re kidding about that last one. The consensus is undecided.)

The boys have their own plans. Peter, as usual, will be following his parents to visit his aunt and uncle in the Netherlands, two people he describes as “dangerously tolerant of alcohol, late nights, their children’s shenanigans, and pretty much anything as long as it’s done with a smile.” Sirius has threatened multiple times to portkey over just for the chance to shake their hands.

Remus always returns home to Wales, mostly to see his mother and satisfy some concept of familial obligation his father holds him to. It’s not the worst thing in the world, but he usually adjourns with James and Sirius as soon as he can get away, as he will be this year to join them for the full moon after Christmas.

James and Sirius write off their own comparatively boring plans to head back to Potter Manor in the country, but they’re fooling no one. James is unabashedly crazy about his parents and will gladly take any opportunity to share a holiday with them. Meanwhile, this will be Sirius’s first Christmas as an actual official member of the Potter household, and he’s just not that good at pretending like it doesn’t excite him to no end.

They make their way up to the common room which has become the typical flurry of activity while everyone locates missing items and packs up their trunks. James lets Sirius describe the gauntlet of cooking he’s going to help Effie with for Christmas dinner and takes a back seat to the whole scene. He’s aware it’s not his normal behavior, but he can’t help but recognize the sort of bittersweet end of this semester.

His friends have made amends and fallen in love, and there’s a war brewing on the horizon.

He’s got over two weeks of holiday coming up, and it’s his last year at Hogwarts.

He’s made two new friends this semester, and he won’t see them again until the New Year. He may not be seeing one of them again at all, after the disastrous end to their last meeting.

James can feel Remus’s probing stare on him from his place in the armchair but ignores it. He couldn’t explain his mood if he tried.

Before they go to bed that night, James slips out of the common room.

When he gets to the Astronomy Tower, the cat isn’t there.

The next morning dawns bright and cold. The sky is a shade of intense blue uncharacteristic to December. At breakfast, the Great Hall is louder than usual with the buzz of enthusiastic chatter. Around one o’clock, they’ll all schlep their way to the train station and pack onto the Hogwarts Express and get the fuck out of there with the holidays ahead of them.

But until then, they’re stuck together with a few hours to kill in a castle that feels like a shaken can of soda.

No one bothers to wear their uniforms on the last day of term and none of the professors care enough to point it out. James even spots Professor Osiris pouring himself tea in plaid pajama bottoms. James and Sirius are both wearing sweaters that Effie made for them. Aside from being a bit of a genius with knitting needles, Effie’s face when she catches them wearing her creations is always priceless. Plus Remus eyes them with envy every time.

The last bout of mail flies in and lands in hands and on plates and in bowls of porridge. Peter’s mum has sent him a list of things he absolutely must not forget that he mutters over because “Honestly it’s like she thinks we don’t have shampoo at home. We’re not survivalists.” Mary passes out boxes of caramels that her brother made as Christmas presents for the boys; not one of them has any problem consuming sugar before nine in the morning and they’re properly grateful.

After they eat, James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter exit the Great Hall and aim for the common room.

They’re jostling through the corridor and ribbing Peter about all the incredibly essential items he just has to bring home when James spots a familiar figure cutting through the crowd headed right towards them.

The first thought James’s brain produces is a joyful Regulus! It’s been almost a week since he’s seen him and it’s doing weird things to James’s head. He looks exhausted but still sophisticated in a deep blue turtleneck and black slacks. James takes the opportunity to drink in the sight of him.

His second thought is Merlin, he looks angry.

James’s third thought is Oh Merlin, he’s angry at me?! and he barely has time to process Regulus’s glare leveled right at him before he’s grabbing James by the collar and dragging him through the door of an empty classroom.

He catches Sirius’s shocked exclamation before the door slams shut behind them and Regulus aims his wand at it. Whatever spell he uses to lock it is not the garden variety because James hears Sirius pounding on the other side and shouting both of their names. He sounds properly panicked, but it’s excusable cause James kind of is too; not only is his own heart beating double time but from the way Regulus was, is looking at him, he wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up dead on the floor in pieces before Sirius can break his way through.

Regulus has pushed him the length of the classroom and now slams him against the stone wall so hard James’s glasses tilt on his face.

He’s still got one hand fisted in the neck of James’s sweater when he growls, “What the fuck have you done?”

James can’t respond immediately for a whole slew of reasons, the least of which have to do with recently having the wind knocked out of him by a wall, the most of which have to do with Regulus standing less than three centimeters away and staring him down with eyes so enraged they’re practically luminescent.

But James still has some modicum of self-preservation in-tact enough to determine that he’d better start talking.

“What- done what? What do you mean?”

“You fucking promised, does that mean nothing to you?”

“Regulus, I don’t know what you’re talking about, honestly!”

“No?” Regulus slaps the hand with a crumpled paper and his wand against James’s chest. James catches the paper before it falls as Regulus says, “Then you have absolutely no idea what this could be?”

James doesn’t look away from Regulus until he backs up a step and releases his collar, too afraid Regulus will decide he’s not worth his time while he looks at whatever the paper is. Behind him, James can here Sirius, Remus, and Peter trying different spells to get past the door. They’ll figure it out eventually, they’re too smart not to, but for now they’re stuck outside. And James doesn’t totally mind cause he really needs to know what has Regulus looking like he wants James in the ground and would gladly be the one to put him there, especially when James can still feel his cool fingers on the back of his neck when he dreams.

James reluctantly pulls his eyes away from where Regulus watches him and turns the paper over.

His stomach drops.

It’s dated in the corner a few days ago in small, neat script James would recognize anywhere.

Dear Regulus,

I understand this letter might come as a surprise to you, seeing as how we’ve never met before or been formally introduced. I consider this a great failure on my part and would like to rectify it immediately, belated and distant as it may be.

My name is Fleamont, but you can call me Monty. Everyone does and I much prefer it that way. James has told me a great deal about you, and I must say I was delighted to hear that you two have become amiable enough this year that-

James doesn’t need to read the rest. Doesn’t even have time to before Regulus rips the paper back out of his hands.

“I’ll ask again,” he says in low, dangerous voice, “What. Have you. Done?”

In truth, James had forgotten all about the letter he’d written to his father. He’d sent it off on November 1^st, the evening after he had found Regulus sick in the girls’ lavatory, and Monty must have just missed it before he and Effie left for Patagonia. It would have been sitting in a stack of mail for him to discover upon his return last week.

The letter wasn’t long; James hadn’t disclosed many details. Nothing about the odd Transfiguration practices. Definitely nothing about learning occlumency. But he had told Monty that by some stroke of luck, he’d had the opportunity to get to know Regulus a bit better this semester. He told him about how smart and funny and kind of scary he was, how James quite liked his company and thought that maybe he and Monty would get along in the right circumstances.

Then he told him that he’d talked to Regulus after he’d gone home for a night. That Regulus didn’t seem well when he returned to Hogwarts and that James was worried.

To anyone else, the letter probably lacked substance. But James knows that to his father, there was much more printed between the lines than he could put into words. Everything he said orbited around the memory of their seven-word conversation about Regulus back in April; it provided the context they’d both been lacking at the time, data points they hadn’t been able to measure before.

James had told Monty because he hadn’t known what to do. He was way out of his depth with the Blacks, but he had a feeling that so was Regulus.

And James would be damned if he let him drown.

Monty had apparently taken this as his cue to try and open another line of communication to Regulus, much like Effie had done with Sirius. If he had to guess, James would say that the rest of the letter set a good-natured tone that simultaneously respected Regulus’s distance as a stranger and urged for a little bit of friendly reciprocation. The end probably put forth an open invitation to visit, to come see James or Sirius or meet Monty in person, something that sounded casual enough but, with all their tangled history, could be read as an offer for asylum.

Regulus clearly had no trouble finding the double meaning. He’s practically shaking with his ice-cold rage in front of James.

For his part, James is grateful for the rage. It’s so much better than the uninterested distance that Regulus employs for everyone else, that he used to employ for him.

James puts his hands out like he could possibly beseech him.

“Regulus, I just wanted you to be alright. Really, I only wrote him after Halloween and-”

“So what, you’ve been writing back and forth about me for over a month? Did you need a new project, James?”

“No, he was away, he must’ve only just got the letter. I wouldn’t do that, you know I wouldn’t.”

Regulus lets out one sharp laugh.

“Actually, I don’t know that. I don’t really know what the fuck you would or wouldn’t do because apparently you’re willing to lie about it.”

“What lie, Regulus? What’ve I-”

“What lie?"

Regulus closes the distance between them and shoves his hand against James’s chest again.

“You promised multiple times over that no one would know about us. I told you how imperative it was that it remain a secret and now your bloody father knows?”

He shakes the letter crumpled in his other hand.

“I can honestly say I believed you too, but if I had to guess I would’ve put money on you being a shit liar. And you know what? I was right.”

He gives James a soulless smile that has his stomach feeling like it’s taken on a pint of freezing water.

“You even put evidence of your lie in writing. Novice mistake, James.”

“Regulus, I didn’t say anything about the transfiguration or the- the occlumency-”

“Oh, well points to you then, I spoke too soon. I’m sure my mother would have no problem with discovering a correspondence from Fleamont Potter as long as it was purely social.”

And okay, James gets it now.

The looming shadow of Walburga Black makes its return appearance to threaten Regulus into preserving his isolation.

James is less confused now and more angry. Angry and sad.

He’s about to say something, he doesn’t know what, when the classroom door bursts open and Sirius, Remus, and Peter spill through. Sirius shouts “James!” but all three of them stop in their tracks when Regulus levels his wand at them without looking away from James. James doesn’t blame them; after witnessing Regulus’s performance in the Dueling Tournament, he wouldn’t be eager to call his bluff on the wrong end of his wand either.

They look at each other for another moment, James speechless but imploring, Regulus irate but resigned.

“You’d better take this home with you before my mother finds it, James,” Regulus says quietly. He presses the letter against James’s chest again. James drops one hand on top of it and on top of Regulus’s hand before he pulls it back.

“Tell your father he had the wrong address.”

And James watches helplessly as Regulus steps away and brings all the masks and shields and barriers with him. Every little obstacle that James has filed away over long nights and shared jokes and their tandem adventures into unknown worlds of magic tumbles into the space between them like a rockslide cementing their separation. It feels just as cataclysmic to James, just as able to shake the ground and knock him off his feet.

Regulus turns.

He brushes past Sirius and Remus and Peter without sparing them a glance.

When he gets to the door he stops and looks back at James.

Just once.

Then he’s gone.

Chapter Text

Potter Manor is decorated with the usual excess of tasteful holiday cheer when James and Sirius arrive home from King’s Cross with Monty. There are evergreen garlands hung along the door and window frames and wound around columns. Monty has planted poinsettias in the flower beds and pots at the top of the front steps. James thinks he likes his house best around Christmas; it’s like the brick and gold fixtures were meant to be viewed with accents of red and green and white snow.

The inside is much the same. The whole house smells like pine and cinnamon, and the delicate metallic baubles that James recognizes from his childhood have taken their places on shelves and tables. A thick red ribbon winds its way down the banister and ends with a cheery bow by the front door.

As usual Effie and Monty have waited for the boys to choose a tree and decorate it, a tradition that they’ve adapted to fit their school schedule and one the James hopes to carry on until he’s dead. He imagines that he, Sirius, and Monty will march out into the forest around the house in the next few days and find a tree that sets a good compromise between their misguided sense of how high the ceilings really are and Effie’s annual warning that they’re not as high as they think.

For now, they bustle through the entryway with great amounts of knocking their unwieldy trunks into things. Effie appears from the direction of the kitchen and greets them both with a dazzling smile.

“How are my boys?” she asks as usual, hugging Sirius tightly before moving on to James. “Train was all good?”

Sirius and James share one quick glance before Sirius says, “Train was fine. Though I think Remus nearly took the poor trolly lady for all she’s worth.”

Effie laughs.

“Oh, I do miss that boy. I hope he has plans to stop by later this month?”

“Sure does. He’s thinking the 27^th if that’s alright?”

“Of course! He’ll be here for New Years then, and that’s the important one isn’t it?”

She says this with a mischievous wink in Sirius’s direction. His hands fly up to cover his face.

“Mum!”

“I’m just teasing. Though you know I’m right.”

James and Monty get a laugh out of Sirius’s distress. She asks them a few more questions and then they’re lugging their trunks up to the second floor. Sirius sends him a weighted look as he takes his room across the hall from James’s, and James responds with a nod because he knows they’ll talk later.

But not right now.

Right now is for James to wrestle his trunk inside his own room and close the door. Then he flops face first on his bed and lets the thoughts of the chaotic day consume him:

Regulus’s cold rage and his much worse apathy.

The letter from his father that still presses against James’s leg in his jeans pocket.

The liminal hours leading up to their departure from Hogwarts when James hadn’t been able to provide coherent responses to any of Sirius’s frantic questions. Moony had eventually put a hand on his shoulder and convinced him to give James a meter of space to sort through his thoughts while he busied himself repacking his trunk for something to do.

The space hadn’t helped much when James had literally no idea what he was thinking or how those thoughts were meant to be ordered in the first place.

But then they’d all piled into a compartment on the Hogwarts Express, and James’s time was up.

Sirius sat across from him with folded arms and an expectant look. Beside them, Remus and Peter seemed unsure as to whether they were involved in the pending conversation but unwilling to leave if they weren’t explicitly asked.

James sighed and dragged his hands over his face. It wasn’t much of a secret anymore, he supposed. Not since he’d fucked the whole thing up so completely.

“I met Regulus the third week of September. He had approached McGonagall about extra Transfiguration lessons, and McGonagall asked me to help.”

Sirius already looked like he wanted to say something but Remus beat him to it.

“That’s who you’ve been tutoring all semester then? The person you told us we didn’t know?”

There was an accusation there as well as an opportunity to fix it in Remus’s scrupulously fair way.

“Yeah. Except, well, it’s not really tutoring. I’m certainly not teaching him anything and he definitely doesn’t need help.” James could see on Remus and Sirius’s faces that this was not the point he was meant to clarify. “But I didn’t know it was going to be him when we met for our first session and neither did he. When he decided that I wasn’t completely useless, he made me promise not to tell anyone about it.”

“And you did?” Sirius asked. “You promised?”

“Yes, I did,” James responded. It was a bit defensive but Sirius didn’t immediately bite back so he kept going. “I just- I don’t know why I did it, okay? But I had been wondering about him for months at that point and it was the first time we had even spoken to each other. It just felt like I had to do whatever I could to make sure he wouldn’t walk away again forever.”

It was pretty flimsy but it was the truth. And James’s friends knew he didn’t lie.

Well. He didn’t lie to them.

Apparently he did lie, which was not something he had known about himself until Regulus pointed it out to him that morning.

“Hold on,” Sirius cut in. “You’d been wondering about him for months? What does that even mean? What brought this on?”

And this was the tough part because Sirius didn’t know about Monty’s question to James back in April and James’s subsequent observation of Regulus. But Remus and Peter were well aware of the whole Black situation and James didn’t really have much of a choice but to spin the whole thing out right there. Sirius deserved that much.

He ran a hand through his hair and said, “I’d been keeping an eye on him after you came to live with us. Dad had asked me once about him and I didn’t know a thing. It bothered me. So I’d gone back to school and looked for ways to talk to him but there were none. Until this Transfiguration thing.”

Sirius looked taken aback, but to his credit, he didn’t immediately lose it.

“But,” he said in a small voice, “he wouldn’t go with me. I asked him to leave and he said no.”

At this, Remus snuck a hand across the seat and grabbed Sirius’s tightly.

“I know, Pads. I know he stayed, that was his choice. But I didn’t know if that meant he was safe there. And I had to find out.”

It was quiet for a while as that sunk in.

“So?”

James looked up and met Sirius’s gaze.

“So what?”

“So, is he safe there?” Sirius asked.

James looked back down at his hands. He didn’t want to have to be the one to tell Sirius this part, but he was the only one that could.

And again. Sirius deserved to know.

“I found him in a girls lavatory on Halloween after the party. He had been sick and he really was unwell but he wouldn’t let me take him to Madame Pomfrey. Then he told me he had gone home that night and just returned.”

Sirius’s face paled, and Remus scooted closer to him.

“It had freaked me out, you know? Like it was too much of a coincidence, especially after…”

He didn’t really know how to reference Sirius’s state at Easter, but he also didn’t need to. Sirius’s eyes said he understood.

“Anyway, so I wrote to Dad and told him a bit about Regulus. I thought maybe he could help or he’d know what to do. He must’ve just got the letter after they got back from their trip, and he wrote to Regulus.”

James saw the understanding on Sirius’s face as the pieces started coming together.

“Regulus got his letter this morning and you all were there for the aftermath. He wasn’t pleased. Which, fair enough, I guess.”

James didn’t have to tell them that he’d broken his promise to Regulus, like he was doing again right now. Sirius especially would know how vital that would be to him, how irreparable.

The whole thing was making James feel sick.

But then Peter said, “You know, you did the right thing, James.”

James turned to look at him.

He just shrugged.

“Maybe not with agreeing to keep the whole thing a secret, but you had to tell someone if you didn’t think he was okay. Especially cause he wouldn’t let you do anything about it for him.”

And James appreciated that more than he could express. It seemed to get through to Sirius too because he just leaned back on his bench and looked out the window for a while.

Minutes passed before Sirius said, “So now you’re… what? Friends?”

James blew out a breath.

“I mean, yeah. It took bloody long enough but we got there. He’s so- I don’t even know what, but we did spend a lot of time together. I got to know him.”

Then a troubling thought overshadowed every word he’d been trying to come up with to describe his relationship with Regulus.

“Or, well we were friends. I doubt he wants anything to do with me after the letter fiasco.”

James didn’t want to think about the wreckage of their friendship. It was too much lost too quickly to give it the proper attention on this train.

Sirius just said, “Huh,” and stared at James.

“What did he even want to practice Transfiguration for if he didn’t need tutoring?” Remus asked from Sirius’s side.

“Honestly, I have no idea. He would never explain it, just said he was going to rob a vault.”

There was another moment of silence.

Then Sirius pushed his hair out of his face and said, “Godric, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

And just like that, the tension was broken.

Peter took the opportunity to speculate what vault could possibly hold something that would interest Regulus Black, while James and Sirius shared one of their silent conversations. Sirius’s look said We’ll talk about this more later and James’s said Please and Thank you.

Their talk didn’t linger on Regulus for long after that; he was still such a new and unpredictable topic that the rules about what could and couldn’t be said were too fragile to push. But it moved on into safer territory, and James could breathe easier again.

Easier, but not easily. Something in his chest had been crumbling in slow motion since Regulus had walked out of the classroom that morning, and James didn’t think his breathing would be easy until he stopped it or there was nothing left to crumble.

James lays on his bed and lets the crumbling continue. He probably should have warned Monty about how skittish Regulus was. But the thing is, James understands why Monty did what he did completely. James and his father are very alike; they both face their problems with a straightforward clarity that, more often than not, presents them with the obvious next step, and they take it because that’s just what they do. 95% of the time, this works beautifully.

It doesn’t surprise James that Regulus belongs to the 5%.

Everything about Regulus has been a challenge to James from the start. (He briefly flashes back to McGonagall’s words before this whole thing began in September and wonders if she had any idea it would work out as well and as disastrously as it did.) He’s had to learn new strategies, practice qualities he doesn’t normally rely on, and keep trying again and again and again just to work his way into Regulus’s trust.

Part of him thinks none of it matters because he ended up breaking that trust in the end, so was any of it real? But that’s just ridiculous. It was real. James hadn’t been ingratiating himself to Regulus with the intention of reneging on his promise, he’d been doing it because he wanted to, because he could hardly stop himself if he was being honest. He thinks about duplicating haunted scissors with Regulus, about the acidic fear he’d felt when he’d watched him leap from his broom at the last Quidditch game, about him wearing James’s jacket. He thinks about the glorious sandcastle and Regulus’s slim form held tight in his arms.

James is sure that they were friends. He is also sure that he took actions that betrayed him without meaning to.

So those two truths will just have to coexist: James is a worthy friend of Regulus Black, and James broke Regulus Black’s trust.

James rolls over on his bed. He takes his glasses off and lets the blur of his surroundings settle around him. It’s a trick he’s used since he was a kid to force himself into limiting the number of things tugging at his attention.

He feels slightly better with his two conflicting but genuine truths. They were friends, and James messed up without intending to. Now he can start to fix it. That’s a position he can live with being in because James is his father’s son. He’ll fix it.

For now, James closes his eyes and takes the time he has to sort through his emotions. He’s always been aware of what he’s feeling, honest and open about it in a way he thinks more people should try. This is no different.

He’s happy to be home in a house that doesn’t change despite all the years and all the turmoil. He’s happy to see his parents again, happier still that Sirius is there with them, that their family finally feels complete.

There’s also a lot to look forward to. He’s excited for Christmas, for the buildup and the molasses-like contentment of the actual day. He’s excited for Remus to join them after and for the sparkling festivity of the New Year.

He’s a bit tired from the hectic journey and the tough conversations. A bit apprehensive about the conversations he’s going to have in the near future.

But beneath that, gaping open like a canyon over which all his other emotions are suspended, is that deep crack of loneliness he’s been feeling, newly expanded to unimaginable proportions. And James could ignore it if he really tried, but he’s not going to.

So he lays there and misses Regulus. Every moment shared between them and the future moments James hadn’t known he’d already mentally etched into next semester. He misses his unflappable poker face and the measured mobility of his expressions. He misses watching Regulus sort through a problem, methodical steps trading off with leaps of insight. He misses how he would tuck himself into the armchair in the Come and Go Room and meet James’s eyes, those long, ringed fingers draped together in his lap. The sensation of Regulus’s consciousness against his shields. His biting remarks when James wasn’t keeping up. His cool, smaller hand in James’s. His rare smile and rarer laugh.

James lays there and misses and misses and misses…

Until he’s not quite sure that missing is all he’s doing anymore.

*

The Potters settle into their usual routine of domestic comforts over the next two days.

They cook and eat meals together, talking and laughing over tales from Patagonia and the Gryffindor common room.

James and Sirius go see a movie called Saturday Night Fever that has them striking ridiculous poses at each other every time they come through a doorway.

They do find an appropriate Christmas tree after much marching through snow and good-natured arguing. It is too tall to fit in the sitting room when they levitate it through the door.

They decorate it together and Sirius picks out notes of popular Christmas carols on the piano until he can play the whole song.

James still misses Regulus like his chest is all bruised up with it.

James is also happy beyond words.

He figures what’s another set of conflicting truths at a point in his life when they seem to be quite popular.

The “later” part of We’ll talk about this more later arrives on their third day home. James takes it as a sign of how much Sirius has matured in the past year that he’s able to wait for James to come to him.

It’s after dinner on Monday, and James finds Sirius sitting on his bed wrapping Christmas gifts.

He slaps his hands over his eyes and says, “Sirius, is it safe to come in?”

“Yes, it’s safe.”

“I’m not about to walk in on you wrapping my 37^th gift and ruin the surprise?”

“Only 36 this year, I’m afraid. Funds were tight.”

James groans and throws himself at the foot of the bed. Sirius gives him an amused look.

“Will you live with the disappointment?”

“I’ll live. But you better believe I’m going to throw one hell of a tantrum on Christmas morning.”

Sirius laughs and leans back on his pillows. James picks up the box of Masala Chai he was wrapping.

He holds it up and says, “Mum?” to which Sirius nods.

“She’ll love it. She’s always after this stuff. Practically locked Dad outside last year when he tried to have some without asking first.”

Sirius smiles, and James puts the box back down. That’s not what he’s here to talk about and James knows it.

So he gets right to it.

“You know, I didn’t tell you everything about me and Regulus this year.”

Sirius just raises an eyebrow and waits.

“We actually had two projects going the whole time. The Transfiguration was one, we’d meet about once a week to practice. But Regulus had this thing about doing something in return. Said he didn’t want to owe me for anything so I had to ask something from him too.”

Sirius looks grave at that and pushes himself up.

“That doesn’t really surprise me,” he says. “Everyone in our family kept score of everything. It always seemed like you were out some debt, something that was impossible to expunge. It sounds insane to look at it now, especially cause we were just kids, but it sort of makes sense when you live there. Like it made sense that Walburga and Orion held us accountable for the burden of raising and housing and feeding us. And our inability to pay that back gave them a sort of carte blanche to treat us however they wanted. That’s how they justified it at least. One of the ways.”

And yeah, James had suspected something similar. It doesn’t do anything to quell the disgust at the injustice of it all. James wants to do something drastic like burn down Grimmauld Place. Or snap a really big tree branch over his knee. That’d probably hurt though.

“So what did you ask him for? I assume you did if you managed to do the Transfiguration thing with him all semester. He wouldn’t budge on that.”

James combs his fingers through his hair.

“No, he wouldn’t. It was weird to me from the beginning so I tried to keep it fair. I figured since I was kind of teaching him something, he should teach me something.”

James looks to Sirius. He’s nodding and considering and doesn’t seem to take issue with the fact that James participated in this absurd exchange with his brother.

But this is the part James wanted to make sure Sirius knows.

Also, it’s fucking cool and he’s had to keep it a secret for so long.

“He taught me occlumency,” James leans forward to tell him, hardly able to keep the excitement out of his voice.

Sirius’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Really?”

“Yeah! Like I’ve got mental shields and everything now. It bloody sucked getting there but he’s actually a really good teacher.”

“Wait, hold on. Since when does Reg know occlumency? Walburga gave up on teaching us when I threw a fit and that was like ten years ago.”

James had thought long and hard about whether to tell Sirius this part. It was another crack in the foundations of his relationship with Regulus; he had been so adamant that no one know not just about him and James working together, but especially not that he was an occlumens and a legilimens. But James had always maintained complete transparency with Sirius. Now that one secret was spilled, he wouldn’t keep another. Plus, Sirius kind of already knew about occlumency and legilimency. As long as he was the only one James told, he could live with that.

“He said he taught himself. He’s quite good as far as I can tell, though I don’t think I’m that good yet so maybe I don’t know. But he sure knows what he’s talking about.”

Sirius leans back and looks at the ceiling.

He folds his arms across his chest and says, “But if he was able to teach you occlumency… then that means he also has to know legilimency?”

He looks to James for confirmation. James just shrugs and nods.

Sirius drops his head back on the pillows.

“Huh. Reggie’s been busy,” he says to himself.

They’re quiet for a long moment, and James lets Sirius think through everything he’s told him.

The Sirius says, “What’s he been like?”

James is a bit confused.

“What do you mean? You’d know better than I would, I’ve only known him for three months.”

Sirius sighs and pushes himself up to sit with his legs crossed.

“Honestly, I might not. We barely spoke to each other for the last few years before I left.”

Sirius picks at the skin around his nails, and James stills himself to listen, certain that what’s being said is absolutely vital to understanding the tangled puzzle of the Black brothers.

“I’d always thought that we were kind of each other’s secret weapon in that house, you know? Like they couldn’t really get to us or turn us against each other because there was no way we’d fall for that. We just loved each other too much.” His voice gets kind of thick but he keeps going. “But after I went to Hogwarts, he was alone there for a whole year and I think that’s when it started. It was a whole year that was astronomically better for me and at the same time it must have been so much worse for him. When I came back I thought he’d want to hear all about it, everything that was waiting for him, but he was so angry and spiteful about it all.

“I talked about you,” Sirius says, meeting James’s eyes. “I talked about you a lot. I couldn’t help it. It didn’t occur to me that he’d feel like I was replacing him.”

James’s stomach sinks when he hears this. It’s so wrong but somehow exactly the kind of thing a lonely, manipulated, abused 10-year-old would think. Conflicting truths.

“I just got mad at him. I thought he wanted to keep me there with him, take me away from everything at Hogwarts, and I didn’t get why he couldn’t just be happy for me. I was trying to share it with him, let him know that there was something better out there.

“It sort of got better after he came to Hogwarts. In some ways. In some ways it got worse. He wasn’t stuck back at home alone anymore, but he was a Slytherin and wasn’t that just proof he was mummy’s little boy just like always?

“I didn’t like his friends either, thought they were vicious and conniving. And they are," Sirius says with a warning look at James, as if he thinks that because James has befriended Regulus he's about to go on an ill-fated Slytherin adoption spree.

"But mostly it turns out they’re just a bit weird. Kind of like him. Kind of like us,” Sirius says with a small smile.

James smiles back.

“But as we got older and I got more headstrong, less willing to take what Walburga was dealing out, she got worse too. Worse punishments for the smallest things. And I’d protect Reg from it cause that’s what I’d always done. I’m his big brother, you know?”

Sirius has real tears in his eyes now.

“But he did so little to push back against her. He just put his head down and agreed with her and did what she said. I thought I was losing him. I thought he was giving in and becoming like her, and he was. There were times when he just looked so much like her and I- I couldn’t stand it.

“We’d get into these massive fights, cause so much noise and break stuff. Walburga would punish us both for the disruption, but she never told us to stop. I think she liked it, saw that she was finally getting between us and we didn’t have our little alliance against her anymore. But it got to the point that I think we just both decided we couldn’t understand each other anymore. I was always starting arguments and acting out, and Regulus was always quiet, compliant.

“There was other stuff. I thought he was trying to throw me under the bus by setting himself up as a point of comparison. Thought they were united against me by how much they hated me. But then at Easter- when everything happened and I was trying to leave, I still asked him to go with me.”

The tears are running down Sirius’s face now. He makes no move to wipe them away.

“I thought, even after all that and the years we hadn’t been able to say a civil word to each other, there had been this foundation between us from when we were kids, when we actually liked each other. I thought that would be enough for him to think there was something left that we could build on if we could just get out of there. So I asked him to leave, and he said no.”

Sirius sniffs and swipes at his face. James sits up and scoots closer, there if he wants him.

“You know most of the rest, I think. He’d made a decision between them and me, and I don’t understand it,” Sirius says shaking his head. “Not at all. But in the months I’ve been away, I’ve had a lot of time and space to think through everything that happened and what kind of place that house was.

“Walburga made it a place we had to survive. There was no chance to build a life or maintain relationships cause we were both too busy trying to navigate her fucking mind games and avoid being hurt. Honestly, it’s a wonder we held on to each other as long as we did,” Sirius says on a wet laugh. “And what I figured—well, actually what Remus figured and I think he’s right, he’s bloody wise sometimes—was that Regulus and I just had different ways of surviving, you know? Like how can I blame him for drawing back and putting up a façade of obedience and acquiescence if that’s what his brain is telling him is going to keep him alive? It’s the same as him trying to blame me for lashing out and picking fights when that was the only way I knew how to remind myself I was my own person in there."

“Maybe we were both just trying to survive in our own ways and they weren’t the same and we didn’t get that." Sirius raises one hand and lets it fall listlessly. "And if that’s the case then did he really make a choice to love them over me? Or did he just not recognize a chance to get out when he saw it? Like maybe he thought it wouldn’t work or that it couldn’t be real. Or maybe he was just so scared. We were always scared in that house.”

Sirius buries his hands in his hair, and James moves to sit by his side and lean against his shoulder. His eyes are wet under his glasses. This is the most detail he’s ever heard of life in the Black household. Or, from the sounds of it, not life. Survival.

It makes a lot of sense laid out like this, and James can’t imagine how much time and effort it’s taken Sirius to reorder his thinking to accommodate new perspectives like this one. He’s beyond grateful for people like Remus, people like Effie for being there to walk him through the process when he’d get stuck. James can’t imagine doing it alone. But then he wonders if maybe this is just something else Regulus has had to do alone. If he has a Remus or an Effie, or if he’s gotten to do it at all.

“I don’t know, James,” Sirius says when he’s composed himself. “I don’t know if I’m just delusional and I’m only thinking these things about Reggie because I want them to be true, cause I want my brother back. I haven’t spoken to him in months and I haven’t had a worthwhile conversation with him in years.

“But you have,” he says, turning to look at James. His eyes are red but determined. “You’ve talked to him and spent a lot of time with him from the sounds of it. So that’s all I want to know really is just- what was he like?”

It’s such a big question. One that can’t be answered in words and yet has to be. It’s the question James has been asking himself since Monty pulled him aside and asked What about his brother?

What about Regulus Black?

Where his ignorance started this whole months-long project of learning Transfiguration beyond their years and building psychological shields in hidden rooms, James thinks it also started the process of obtaining an answer.

Because James might be the only person in this house who can answer that question now.

So he tells Sirius what Regulus Black is like.

He tells him how his stare had frozen him in place at their first meeting. How after months of not having the guts to just go up and talk to him, he’d stood in the Transfiguration classroom and been absolutely right, Regulus Black was kind of terrifying and not in any way unaware of the effect he had on people. How he’d had to produce a perfect ring from the ivy McGonagall used to keep in order to even get Regulus to give him the time of day.

He tells him about Regulus’s tough, didactic demeanor when they’d meet for occlumency. How, despite James’s ineptitude and his own expertise and the surplus of sarcastic comments that kept James’s ego firmly in check, he was patient and helpful and never deriding.

He tells him how secretly funny Regulus is, how James always felt like he could barely keep up with his quick back-and-forth and yet it was the most exciting thing he’s ever done.

He tells him how he’s proud but not too proud to concede to a Quidditch bet made in good faith.

How he’s smart, way too smart, and how he’d innovate the rules of Transfiguration James would supply him with but sometimes needed James to show him an obvious way out if he thought himself into a corner.

How he’s ruthless with most people and unbelievably careful with some.

How he needs patience from others.

How he’s been tired and paranoid.

How he never goes easy on himself.

How James could still get him to laugh if Regulus was relaxed and James surprised him.

Sirius asks questions and James finds that he can answer them all. Sirius smirks at some comments and rolls his eyes at others. Some seem to be unfamiliar while others cause him to say, “Yeah, that definitely sounds like Reg,” with a fondness that creeps around the edges of his smile.

They talk for over an hour just about Regulus, and it feels like their words fill in an aching gap he’s occupied in this house since Sirius came to them. They’ve finally recognized him, his person and his absence, and it’s better this way.

He’s still not there with them though—like key struts and load-bearing walls are missing from the house and cause it to shift and groan in pain—and James gets the sense that both he and Sirius would do quite a lot to change it.

They both want him out of that house. For once they can lay there on Sirius’s bed and openly agree on that.

It’s past midnight when James stretches and pushes himself to his feet with a grunt. Sirius just follows him with his eyes.

“You want to go into town tomorrow?” James asks as he ruffles his hair. “I should have Dad’s gift to pick up at the bookshop by now.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Sirius agrees.

Then he sits up and says, “James?”

“Yeah?”

Sirius is looking at him the way Moony does sometimes, like he’s trying to see through James’s head and find an answer.

“You said you were friends with Reggie.”

James isn’t really sure if that’s a question, but Sirius waits so he answers.

“I think so. I mean it’s not like he ever acknowledged it but then again, he wouldn’t. I considered us friends though.”

Sirius nods thoughtfully and James is about to leave again when Sirius says from behind him, “Just friends?”

James stops.

Turns.

Looks at Sirius who just looks back.

“Yes?”

To be honest, James isn’t sure what the alternative is.

“Why do you ask?”

Sirius looks at him for another moment. Then he shakes his head and the spell is broken.

“No reason.” He starts removing the gifts and wrapping paper from his bed. “You’d better be up by 9 or I’m sending Padfoot in to wake you.”

James nods distantly and wishes him goodnight.

He walks the few steps across the hall and closes the door to his own room.

As he gets ready for bed, he replays the last few hours. Everything Sirius had revealed about Grimmauld Place. Everything James had shared about the enigma that is Regulus Black.

And Sirius’s last confounding question.

Just friends? What else is there?

James feels like he’s missing something.

He throws on a pair of appropriately festive red plaid pajama pants and crawls under the covers.

There’s a lot to think about, but James adjusts his pillow and closes his eyes.

It can wait till tomorrow.

*

Except apparently it can’t.

Because James dreams of Regulus.

He’s dreamt of him before as a lithe, mysterious figure that makes an occasional appearance in the inscrutable logic of the dream world.

This is decidedly not that.

In this dream, he’s close.

James thinks they might be in the Come and Go Room with how close he is and maybe James is sitting in his chair but Regulus isn’t because he’s looking down at James and he’s so damn close.

And those elegant white fingers are wrapped in silver rings and James can feel them slide into his hair and trace down his neck. He can feel one finger catch in the hollow of his throat while the others stutter over his collarbones.

And Regulus is looking at him with those stormy grey eyes, so intently it’s like he’s never looked anywhere else, and he’d better not because James needs those eyes on him.

And the firelight drips down his black curls and James thinks that to weave his hands through them would be to come away with handfuls of gold and obsidian.

And his mouth curves a bit, just at the corner, to offer a sly smile to James as his thumb hovers close enough over his bottom lip that James can feel his own shallow breath against it and Regulus’s mouth shapes one word, “James,” and he can almost hear it, low and smoky and they’re so close but Regulus really should come closer-

And James wakes up well before 9.

He’s sweating and his heart is pounding and there are other things going on in different places that he can’t ignore.

James lays awake until the sun rises, the words Just friends? echoing through his head.

*

A week passes without incident.

There’s another snowfall and a subsequent multi-hour snowball fight.

They bake gingerbread and watch Effie craft a masterpiece of architecture from the pieces.

James wraps all his Christmas presents and catches Padfoot trying to sniff them out through the wrapping paper.

Through it all, in the back of James’s head is Just friends?

Christmas Eve arrives and James falls into a golden haze of viscous happiness.

His family eats dinner together and they play a muggle boardgame Effie found called Monopoly.

James formally renounces every one of his relatives, blood or otherwise, when they thoroughly bankrupt him.

Monty chuckles as he counts his money.

Through it all, in the back of James’s head is the memory of Regulus from his dream, ethereal but at the same time so painfully tangible.

On Christmas morning, James tackles Sirius out of bed and they run downstairs to hug their parents and open gifts.

The day passes in a blur of cooking and singing and good cheer.

After another awe-inspiring banquet of Effie’s authentic Punjabi cuisine, James and Monty stand together at the stove and stir mulled wine while Sirius and Effie set up warming charms on the back porch.

Monty asks James if he knows anything about Regulus receiving a letter he sent him, and the sound of Regulus’s name makes James jump a little. James is forced to produce his father’s letter from where it’s sat on James’s nightstand since he got home from school.

“He told me to tell you that you had the wrong address.”

Monty laughs a little at that.

“Well, I wouldn’t trust it was him if he wasn’t as stubborn as his brother.”

He looks at the letter contemplatively before folding it up and slipping it into his pocket.

“We’ll just have to try again.”

This is one of James’s favorite things about his parents, that they don’t fall for it when someone pushes them away. They know how to love people and love them well. They know all the things they’ll do to try and keep that love at a distance and all the tricks to get past them. Now that he’s seen it happen once already with Sirius, James thinks he might be able to recognize the little bit of love his parents are sending Regulus’s way despite never having even met him before.

Monty says, “I’m sorry, James, if my interference over here caused problems in your friendship. I’ll admit I knew it was a possibility when I sent the letter but figured I’d better send it anyway.”

At James’s startled look, Monty laughs again.

“Don’t think I don’t know when something’s off with you, James. You’re an open book. You haven’t been quite right since you got home.”

And yeah, James can’t hide shit from his parents and he doesn’t really want to. He pulls fingers through his hair and immediately thinks about the dreamed feeling of Regulus’s hands there instead. He shakes his head.

“Yeah, he wasn’t too happy about it. But I think it was the right thing to do. I don’t think he’s very good at accepting help.”

Monty turns his full attention on James then.

“You’re probably right. That was something Sirius had to learn too. All you and I can do is keep offering it.”

He drops a comforting hand on James’s shoulder.

“So give him time, James. And don’t ever make that help unavailable. He may realize he needs it one day and we have to be ready if he decides to come to us.”

James nods. He’s already decided he won’t let Regulus get away with ditching him over a miscommunication. He’s his father’s son, after all.

But tonight and until he gets back to school, there’s nothing he can do about it. So he hugs his father, if only so he knows he’s not the only person in the world reaching a hand out to Regulus.

Monty holds him tight and says, "I always forget you've gotten so tall."

James huffs a laugh.

"It's hardly been three months. You haven't exactly missed much."

"I know," Monty replies wistfully. There's more to it than James knows how to read, some of those things that only parents understand he supposes.

When he pulls away, Monty says, “I’ll talk to Sirius too. See where he stands in all this.”

“He wants him out of there,” James says quietly.

 “I know. He always has. But maybe he’s prepared to ask him again.”

They finish spicing the wine and bring it out to the back porch to watch the snow and the stars.

Through it all, in the back of James’s head he reminisces about standing shoulder to shoulder with Regulus at the top of the Astronomy Tower and doing something very similar after the Quidditch game.

It reminds him of the cat too, two dark, quiet companions, and the ache doubles.

*

In the liminal week between Christmas and New Years, James assigns himself a project.

His parents were always fond of projects for James when he was a child. He was hyper, to say the least (a trait which has only moderated itself slightly as he’s grown), and he can appreciate those projects for what they really were now—desperate efforts from his parents to find something that would occupy this kid for more than five minutes.

He’s continued with projects as a teenager: captaining the Quidditch team, the animagus transformation, Head Boy duties. He might even call occlumency a project, advanced and productive as it was. So when James finds himself with a blank week before he needs to think about going back to school, it’s prime project time.

This project is slightly different from any that he’s attempted before, though, because this project is Regulus Black.

Or, more specifically, What’s The Deal With Regulus Black?

Or, even more specifically, What’s James’s Deal With Regulus Black?

The crux of this project stems from Sirius’s wild question and the implications behind it. Just friends? Of course they were just friends! What else would they be?

But that argument lasts pitifully little time after James puts his mind to it.

He’s not an idiot. He’s aware there are other options. For example, if someone pointed to Sirius and Remus and said Just friends, James would have laughed in their face and had been for years.

But Sirus and Remus were Sirius&Remus; their names would be written like that on their wedding invitations and headstone. They were so clearly taken with each other and right for each other in every way he could think of. He and Regulus weren’t like that.

Right?

Right, and James will prove it with his Airtight List of 4 Reasons Why James Potter and Regulus Black Are Just Friends.

He spends a lot of their indolent Boxing Day meandering around the house helping with cleanup and composing the list in his head. So far, it goes something like this:

1. Regulus doesn’t like James like that.

This feels like a pretty safe conclusion. Regulus barely likes anyone and has a history of harping on James’s more annoying qualities loudly and often. Besides, James would know if he felt a certain way about him; he’s quite adept at picking up the finer social cues.

But these points seem to twist back on themselves the more James thinks about them. Regulus barely likes anyone so why does he tolerate James’s company? He ridicules James but that’s also his sense of humor. He did so with scorn in the beginning and with good-natured teasing towards the end.

And James would know if he liked him like that, except hadn’t he always had trouble reading Regulus you-wouldn’t-be-able-to-tell-that-I-was-bleeding-out-till-I-dropped-dead Black?

So they’re not quite up to James’s airtight standard, but he’ll come back to them. They don’t even have anything to do with how James feels about it all.

Which leads him to his next reason:

2. James doesn’t like Regulus like that.

It’s not a boy thing. James has seen boys he’s liked before. Remus in third year (he will take this to his grave lest Sirius finds out and takes him there himself). Frank for the two years of his Quidditch captaincy. Men on posters or in magazines that he’s stared at and thought Yeah, I’d touch that. It’s not so much a Girls/Boys Men/Women thing for James as it is a Who Cares? thing. So that’s not the issue.

It's just that James thinks of Regulus as a friend. They’ve spent all semester doing stuff that friends do, like teaching each other things, joking about their professors, meeting on the mental plane, sharing jackets and watching the stars come out… gazing into each other’s eyes by the dim firelight… transfiguring rings that fit the other perfectly…

Come to think of it, some of their activities have taken a very non-platonic turn as he remembers them so he’ll revisit Reason Number 2 as well.

Reason Number 3:

3. James doesn’t want to be anything more than friends with Regulus.

James likes Regulus plenty well, but he likes what they have. Doesn’t think about what they’re not doing or what more he wishes he could do with him.

Except that’s such an enormous fucking lie.

And apparently James has been skipping through fields of flowers like a twat all semester ignoring a feeling that it took a whole entire wet dream to figuratively and literally wake him up to.

It’s hard to write off a desire to look and touch and hold and feel when you apparently want it so badly that your brain writes a little movie about it to play while you sleep.

It’s even harder when you watch the movie and your body says Yes, that, please.

The dream has thrown a wrench in that particular reason. James’s only defense is that he wasn’t aware that he wanted that until he’d dreamt it, so how far can it really be trusted?

The fourth reason:

4. Sirius????

Namely, Sirius would eviscerate James if he found out he had more than a Just friends kind of interest in his little brother. Honestly, James is a bit surprised his reaction to finding out about the whole Just friends relationship James had with Regulus didn’t end in more displays of dramatics. It’s a real step in the right direction for his self-control. But James recalls Sirius’s vicious protective streak for his little brother and imagines a good deal of creative violence would ensue if James were to tell him that he really would quite like to put his tongue in Regulus’s mouth.

Not that he does.

Probably.

And even this point doesn’t hold up quite as well when James remembers that it was Sirius who put this whole ridiculous idea in James’s head with his stupid Just friends? and his stupid failure to elaborate.

The List of Reasons is pissing him off so he packs it up for another day when his brain isn’t feeling like being a jerk by picking out all his logical fallacies.

The perfect distraction comes in the form of Remus showing up on the 27^th to much enthusiasm from Sirius and even more enthusiasm from Effie and Monty. James and Sirius stand together in the doorway and trade suspicious looks as Effie and Remus banter in the kitchen over a shared glass of Welsh whiskey he brought as a belated Christmas gift. James has his theories that he’s simply a useful vessel for his parents to slowly adopt all of his friends. Sirius seems more concerned that Effie is going to succeed where she’s steadily convincing Remus to go on holiday with her to Bavaria and leave him behind. He jokingly voices this worry to the room and is not at all reassured when Monty says, “That’s a great idea! You’d love Bavaria, Remus,” and pushes past James and Sirius to get to the whiskey.

Remus of course is and always will be entirely Sirius’s, demonstrated when the two of them eventually go upstairs to ensconce themselves in Sirius’s room. They reappear in time to help set up for dinner, and it’s a good thing too because dinner proves to be far more interesting than what they’ve been doing.

With the five of them arrayed at the table, Effie and Monty trade a sober look then tell the boys they’d like to explain something to them.

That something happens to be what they’ve been waiting months to hear about: the Movement.

Except not the Movement—The Order of the Phoenix, which is objectively way cooler.

James’s parents explain how they’ve been a part of the Order since its inception about a year and a half ago when the Death Eaters began gathering numbers. Under the leadership of Dumbledore (Dumbledore!) a group of witches and wizards have organized in response and been working to thwart the Death Eaters’ plans. Effie and Monty have been hosting meetings, making contacts across the country and on the continent, in Monty’s case brewing potions, in Effie’s case providing triage.

These last two, they mention with more hesitation, unwilling to divulge many of the details surrounding what activities could require potions and medical magic.

“We know you boys are likely very interested in this whole war effort, and Monty and I won’t keep things from you that you’re likely to find out eventually,” Effie explains carefully. “There will be a war, and we’re going to be a part of it. But that does not under any circumstances mean that you should be. It’s not for you to worry about. You’re still in school and you’ve got your whole lives ahead of you, so we don’t want you jumping in thoughtlessly. You’re much too young to devote yourselves to such nastiness.”

It’s a good point, but James already knows it’s too late. Sirius’s eyes are practically glowing with excitement, and he can admit that he’s a bit thrilled by the concept too. There is of course that part of him that agrees with his mum—they are awfully young to be fighting for some greater cause, and he certainly doesn’t like the idea of Sirius and Remus pitted against some amorphous dark force—but they’re all adults, and their lives are their own to do with as they please. James will be damned if he lets his parents and brother risk their lives while he doesn’t.

Looking at Remus, he can see his same concerns echoed on his face. But Remus is one of the most loyal people he knows and just self-sacrificing enough to rush into battle ahead of all of them. He’ll be there.

The three of them stay up late that night talking about what it will be like, to be war heroes. It paints a rather lovely picture.

The next day is more subdued because it’s a full moon. Remus lays around the house, mostly draped over Sirius in some form or fashion. Sirius doesn’t seem to mind one bit.

The laziness is nice but it does give James a rather inconvenient amount of time to think, which inevitably leads back to The List of Reasons. James decides he’d better move on to part two of his plan to confirm to himself that he and Regulus are Just friends, which is of course an itemized accounting for everything that underlies their friendship.

He finds himself laying on a sofa in the quiet library, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, avoiding disruption until he can sort this out.

So.

Friends.

What does he like about Regulus that makes them friends?

Well, he’s not like any friend James has ever had before. James is used to being popular and well-liked by most everyone. Regulus’s initial disdain and his unwillingness to be impressed with James had thrown him for a bit of a loop, but he won’t say he dislikes it.

It was just another part of what made Regulus a challenge. Not much challenged James, so there was something refreshing and exciting about someone who didn’t fall for his usual charm. It had forced James’s deeper and, in his opinion, better qualities to the surface to win him over: thoughtfulness, persistence, patience, a kind of selflessness that emerges when you devote time and effort to understanding someone else.

James likes Regulus because he’s difficult. Because he makes James better.

Regulus is nothing if not individual too. He doesn’t let James get away with anything, seems more than willing to go head to head with his ego. He’s brilliant and hard-working and those qualities are locked together, inseparable.

It took James a while to figure out where Regulus fits in his Theory of Magical Intelligence, but it was quite obvious when he landed on the answer. He’d walked out of one of their late-night Transfiguration practices thinking through the process Regulus had used to preserve basic machine mechanisms between forms and realized that Regulus was an innovator.

Where James can slip into existing forms of magic with little trouble at all, Regulus picks up the thread of known magic and follows it into the dark. He looks at what he has to work with and builds something new, his mind skipping down paths that no one has considered before. It’s incredible to watch, like witnessing someone draw new magic out of thin air because they willed it into existence.

So James likes the way Regulus thinks too.

He’s still such a mystery to James that he feels like he can’t get enough of finding out the tiny things that help piece the picture together. And what he has of the picture is lovely. James thinks of the sandcastle, how much vulnerability Regulus had shown him in that one moment. James had come away from it understanding that while the vulnerability was there, as it was for everyone, Regulus had spent years of his life shaping it into something strong.

He wasn’t going to let his fear rule him. There’s nothing James can respect more.

Then there are the more superficial things.

He makes James laugh, that’s important. And James can make him laugh too, thank you very much. He’s one hell of a Seeker, which doesn’t really mean anything except that James likes to have friends he can watch perform breathtaking stunts in midair. There’s also a certain way about him that reminds James of large predatory animals, guarded and dangerous and stunning. In the moments when James can get past it and draw a rare smile from him, it makes James want to look around for witnesses like Did you just see that? See what I can do?

It might be its own type of magic entirely.

And yes, he’s objectively beautiful. How could he not be with those sable curls he wears like a crown, eyes that draw James in and pin him in place at the same time, and a collection of sharp features that fit together with the delicate symmetry and precision of a porcelain doll. His whole bearing strikes a balance between graceful and solid, the fine edge of an indestructible blade.

When James gets to fantasizing about his hands and the maddening collection of rings, he thinks he might have gotten a bit off course.

Because they’re friends, and friends don’t think of each other like that.

It doesn’t sound very convincing to James anymore.

But there’s something else he can try. A harmless little thought experiment.

James really didn’t think it would come to this, but it’s the only way to be sure about how he actually feels about Regulus. He needs to know if the dream was a one-off or if there was really something there.

So he closes his eyes and thinks.

Thinks about how his brain had conjured Regulus in that dream, cast in alternating rich firelight and shadows with that smirk curving his mouth into a dangerous line. How he had looked down at James with curiosity and appreciation and taken his time tracing lines through James’s hair and down his throat with those magnificent fingers.

In his meditative waking state, James can feel how his own hands want to lift in response, to slide his palms to fit against sharp hipbones and tug him forward until he brackets James’s legs with his knees on the chair. James wants to feel Regulus’s weight on his lap and trap that electric heat between them until it builds into a current. He wants to run his hands up the curve of his slim waist and fit his fingers between the ladder of his ribs as Regulus uses one finger to tilt James's chin up so that their eyes and lips align with less than a centimeter between them. He can feel it in his lips and his tongue how gratifying it would be to close that space and finally do something about all those hours spent staring at Regulus and their long nights and their close proximity.

And yup, James is an idiot.

An idiot with a boner and a horribly out-of-control crush on his best friend’s unobtainable little brother.

*

There’s one more thing James has to do to confirm what is turning out to be a slew of retroactive realizations, but he doesn’t get to until late afternoon the day after the full.

Sirius is cuddled up in his bed with Remus who’s woken groggy but unscathed after an uneventful night in the woods behind Potter Manor. They’re talking to each other quietly when James finds them and it’s really such a touching scene, but James has problems of the rather urgent variety so they’re just going to have to put that on hold.

“What did you mean when you said Just friends, Pads?” James asks with no introduction as he strides into his room and closes the door.

Sirius and Remus both turn to look at him with rather lost and annoyed expressions.

“James, what? What are you on about?”

“Just friends? You said that to me, right before we went to bed after talking about Regulus. What did you mean by that? Why did you ask?”

James throws himself at the foot of the bed and tries not to look too agitated.

“Sorry, what’ve I missed?” Remus asks.

Sirius wracks his brain for a moment and then says, “Oh, yeah, that. James and I talked a bit more about Regulus after we got home and I asked James if they were only friends.”

Remus seems to understand immediately.

“Right. What’d he say, then?”

“Well, he claims they are.”

“Hmm. Okay.”

“Excuse me!” James butts in. “I feel like I’ve missed something now. Is this a topic I should have considered sooner?”

Remus looks at James like he maybe isn’t quite the massive intellect Remus had hoped.

“Well, we were all speculating this semester. We thought you’d met someone but you never talked about them or brought them round so we didn’t push it. But then when we learned you’d been spending all this time with Regulus on the train, and it sort of put all the pieces together.”

This is news to James. He’s maybe forgotten that while he’s worked so hard to get his friends to a better place and gone off by himself, his friends were also looking out for him the whole time.

And he is a notoriously open book. Like spine-broken, cover-missing kind of open.

So he says, “Pieces? What pieces? What’s been put together?”

Remus and Sirius share a look that says something like You’ve been dealing with this all holiday? and Unfortunately.

“Walk through this with me, James,” Remus says and props himself up a bit more like he’s going to need the support for this conversation. “You spend an inordinate amount of time on your own this semester. You come back from these excursions bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like Wrooski-”

“Wronski.”

“Whoever the fuck god of Quidditch just came down from the sky and named you his successor. Multiple times per week. You’re distracted in the hallways and at mealtimes cause you’re too busy rubbernecking to try and spot someone who is very much not a Gryffindor. And you haven’t gone on a single date all year. Then, we come to find out that a good portion of the time you’ve been missing in action has been spent in the company of one Regulus Black who, I don’t think I need to tell you, is disastrously your type.”

“My type?” James shoots up from where he’s lying and barely catches his glasses before they go sailing off the bed. “What do you mean my type?”

“Merlin, I have to do fucking everything around here,” Remus says rubbing his eyes. “Your type, James. Smart, mean, unfairly gorgeous-”

“Oi-”

“Shut it, Sirius, this is science. Are you really going to sit there and tell me you’ve never even thought about it? Not even once? I mean, I’ve thought about it-”

"Oi-”

Remus slaps a hand over Sirius’s mouth.

“-And I’m in love with his brother. You’d have to be blind, straight, or happily coupled up to ignore that boy. I know for a fact you are not two of those and you have glasses to correct the third, so tell me where I’ve gone wrong.”

Remus finishes and folds his arms. Sirius looks a bit put out to hear Remus’s complimentary assessment of Regulus but lays his head on his shoulder.

James just stares at them. Remus has always had a way with impenetrable logic but Sirius? Is Sirius really just sitting here and listening to all this? They must have talked about it before because he is remarkably cool about it all.

And James… well, James has taken a full three days to convince himself that he and Regulus are just friends and has instead come to pretty much the opposite conclusion.

It might be time to face some realities here.

“Alright,” James says a bit shellshocked. “There’s a small chance we’re not just friends.”

“No, really?” Sirius says tonelessly.

“But in my defense, we’ve never done anything that’s definitively not just friends. I just think he’s beautiful and incredible and scary but like in a good way.”

“Well, that’s enough of that for me,” Sirius says pushing himself up. “Congratulations on the realization, James. You’re the last to know. Now stop thinking dirty thoughts about my brother while you’re in my room. I only have so much self-restraint.”

“Are you actually okay with this, Pads?” James asks as he slides off the bed and rubs at his hair. “Honestly, I kind of thought you’d at least take a finger or something as warning.”

“If I thought you’d get anywhere with it, James, there would be some minor scuffling and one hell of a shovel talk. But this is Regulus. I don’t even know if he’s into people like that and if he is, he certainly won’t be easy to win over. So go for it. If he agrees to a date, I’ll even pay for the dinner,” Sirius says and waves him off.

James trades an incredulous look with Remus, who just shrugs and winds an arm around Sirius’s shoulders.

James is almost out the door when Sirius says, “Besides, there are way worse options for my little brother than James Potter. Maybe he can even get you to shut up once in a while.”

James’s grin is shamelessly goofy at that.

He leaves Moony and Padfoot to their peace and goes to take a walk through the snow and the golden evening.

He lets himself think about Regulus however he wants to for the first time in his life and yes, he’s there, and he’s imposing and magnificent and quietly kind like James has come to know him.

And he lets himself admit that he wants him, more of him, maybe all of him.

James’s emotions, once broken past the dam, are a refreshing flood of confessions that feel much better filling in the rest of his mind and body than they did stifled behind a wall of ignorance.

He falls asleep that night with a smile on his face and wakes up the next day with a clear head.

Just in time for everything to go to hell.

Chapter Text

A little less than a week into the holiday break—time that he has spent pacing and religiously avoiding his mother and practicing transfiguration in the late hours and trying not to let the pulse of the Horcrux drive him mad—Regulus starts counting the days.

On the first day, Walburga informs him that the Death Eater meeting will be held at their country manor on the night of the 30^th.

Regulus nods his assent and waits for her to leave his room and take the awful thing on her finger with her.

*

On the second day, Regulus sits down and maps out a minute-by-minute plan of everything that he knows he has to do and thinks is going to happen on the 30^th, complete with contingencies and failsafes.

He writes it out in detail ten times, repeats it to himself ten more times, then burns the papers.

*

On the third day, Regulus searches the Black library for any more information on Horcruxes. Now that he knows what he’s actually looking for, he can view what he finds with new eyes.

He doesn’t find much.

*

On the fourth day, Walburga and Orion leave the house to have lunch with some pompous politician or another. Regulus takes the opportunity to collect an array of dark items with foreboding auras and practice replicating them successively.

He’s gotten better after that night with James and the possessed shears. Pinpointing the intricacies of an aura without ample time to study it and then reproducing it on a different object is still damn difficult. But Regulus already knows he won’t have more than a scant seven-minute window after the Death Eater meeting to do what he needs to.

So he practices until he sits on the floor of his bedroom surrounded by a flotsam of items that mix their malevolent airs into one roiling mass of venom around him.

*

On the fifth day, Regulus sends an owl to Evan asking for any update on the bill’s progress. Evan sends his short response that evening, and it’s not reassuring.

Nothing yet. B says they’ll reconvene on the 27^th. Try not to worry.

Regulus laughs at that last line. Evan’s hilarious sometimes.

*

On the sixth day, Regulus is rummaging through the drawer of his bedside table when he notices James’s ring is missing.

He’d hesitated to pack it the last day of term but found himself snatching it up at the last minute. Something about it gathering dust on his nightstand all alone during the holiday didn’t sit right with him. He’d tossed it in the drawer the second he got home, lest his mother see it and ask some uncomfortable questions.

But he hadn’t been able to forget about it. He’d lay awake at night with everything pounding against the inside of his head and feel the ring’s presence in the drawer next to him. In his more delirious moments, he imagined it with its own power, a kind of anti-Horcrux ring to protect him from the one downstairs.

It was stupid. The ring was just a ring. But he’d kept it anyway.

Now it’s missing, and Regulus’s heart is beating through his ribs with the thought that his mother has found it and recognized it as something cheap and delicate and completely out of place in their family.

He sits through a tense Christmas Eve dinner with his parents, waiting for Walburga to choose her moment to produce the ring and interrogate him into a corner.

The meal passes without incident, and Regulus is allowed to retreat upstairs. He’s just wondering how he can subtly search the house when there’s a knock at his door.

Regulus opens it to find Kreacher standing there. The House Elf extends a hand to Regulus and opens it to reveal the ring. It’s been polished so that the reddish gold strands gleam. But Kreacher has also done something to accelerate the oxidation of the copper. In the crevices and the detailed etchings on the ivy leaves, a layer of dusty mint green has collected. It gives the ring more dimension, age, and a contrast so striking Regulus could study it for hours.

He takes the ring carefully and notices that it’s been threaded onto a thin silver chain, long enough to clasp around his neck. He does just that, and the ring slides beneath his shirt to rest over his chest, away from prying eyes but felt intimately.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” he says. He means it.

When midnight comes, he creeps downstairs and into the kitchens where Kreacher is waiting for him. Regulus rummages through the cavernous pantry and pulls out tins of biscuits then finds an illicit bin of ice cream and leftover strawberries in the ice box. He stands at the counter and scoops the ice cream into bowls. He piles on strawberries and crushes the biscuits on top. Then he brings them to the table with two spoons.

He and Kreacher eat their sundaes in silence for the first few minutes of Christmas, just as they have every year since Regulus can remember.

Kreacher doesn’t accept gifts, and he’s already given Regulus more than he can ever thank him for. So they do this instead, a small act of service and shared company to get them through the holiday.

*

On the seventh day, Regulus thinks about James.

He can’t help it, he’s tried.

He’s an expert at cutting ties with people, wishes it wasn’t so easy for him sometimes, so when he received that letter from James’s father at breakfast on the last day of the semester and realized that James had taken it upon himself to reveal their relationship to someone else in an explicit violation of the promise he’d made to him three months earlier, Regulus had just folded it up and thought Well, that’s that then.

It’s quite lucky that no one else at the table noticed him reading a letter from Fleamont Potter; he doesn’t kid himself into thinking that the Averys and Mulcibers of the world haven’t been given strict instructions from their parents to keep him in their sights now that all of the Death Eaters know of his special status. This would have been more than enough leverage against him if used correctly.

But Regulus had barely read past “My name is Fleamont…” before his eyes were skipping down the page in panic and outrage catching the occasional line or word: “James has told me,” “amiable,” “a couple of potions projects in the works,” “come visit some time.” The man was just as naïve and ridiculous as his son if he thought this was in any way a good idea or even remotely viable.

Regulus thinks he would like him.

But it didn’t matter because James had broken his word, and Regulus had no room in his life for people he couldn’t trust completely. There was already far too much of that.

He’d cornered James and wrung a stuttering confession out of him, aware that his brother and their friends had seen a good deal of it, and then he’d gone on his way, already boxing up the memories of their time together and slapping them with a strict DO NOT OPEN sticker to seal the deal.

But it’s Christmas, and Regulus has been suffering through hours of tense ceremony with aunts and uncles and a whole entourage of unsavory cousins. His brain seems to take this as a call for emergency material to carry him through the rest of the day and breaks open the boxes.

If he’s honest with himself, he understands why James did what he did. He doesn’t forgive it, but he understands. He knows James saw too much of him on Halloween night, that he should have been more careful to hide those parts of himself that bleed through the cracks when his defenses are down, and that to someone like James who can’t help but care about people any more than he can help his heart beating, that might have been scary.

And Regulus supposes that if he’d grown up in a household like what he imagines James’s to be from his brief anecdotes about his parents or offhand mentions of holiday plans, he might also turn to his father (a very different father from the distant, uninterested mantle Orion Black has taken) for a word of advice when he’s concerned about a friend.

It’s not hard to plot the path of James’s decisions, and sometimes Regulus wishes that he weren’t such a logical person. He wishes that he could hold onto his anger and actually spend some time feeling the betrayal and all that it means for him rather than immediately rationalizing someone else’s actions. Instead he’s left with a sort of resigned emptiness that’s all too familiar, like looking around the wreckage of one of Pandora’s failed experiments and hearing her say Well, it was bound to happen eventually. Then she scoops her hair into a bun, cleans up, and starts over.

Regulus doesn’t have that luxury because every time an experiment fails he gets hurt, and one day it’s going to kill him. So he lets the emptiness stay; it’s helpful for something at least.

Today though, the emptiness feels like it echoes in him. Probably because of the holiday and the harsh point of comparison his own loveless family trapped in their antiquated rituals provides against what he imagines the Potters are up to.

Maybe they do the whole presents under the tree thing. James is very easy to picture as a little kid, pumped up on sugar and flying down a staircase before the sun has even begun to make an appearance, waking the whole house in the process. For some reason, he also suspects that James’s parents got used to it and indulged their son’s antics, laughing as he exclaimed over the gifts and chugged hot chocolate by the pint.

The older James he knows would still have some of this enthusiasm, a bit more subdued but still buoyant and effervescent and polished over the years into a kind of graceful appreciation for his family and their generosity and the spirit of the day. He’d likely give them all very thoughtful gifts and offer to make breakfast and maybe go the whole day wearing one of those tacky muggle sweaters while still managing to look handsome as all hell.

Regulus has to remind himself to wipe the small smile off his face before someone notices.

He also has to remind himself to revise all his imaginings of the Potter household to accommodate a fourth person, though it’s a rather easy amendment. Sirius would slide down the banister like he never got to do at Grimmauld Place. He’d hug James’s mother and father and call them Mum and Dad and make fun of James’s sweater while wearing one of his own. He’d steal food from the kitchen for the fun of it, not because he was starving, and receive teasing reprimands, not a slap across the face.

It would be the kind of Christmas he always wanted for himself and Regulus, the kind that he deserves.

Regulus ignores the ache of want in his chest. Like it or not, he belongs here. He’s rather good at playing his role in the Black family. He’s haughty and entitled, polite but in a dismissive way. Knows just how to charm his aunts and uncles. Knows just how to distract Bellatrix from her baiting attention. Narcissa is really the only one who knows when he’s acting anymore, but she’s off at her own stodgy affair with the Malfoys.

During the few fleeting moments when he’s fantasized about what it would have been like to run away with Sirius last April, he’d been depressingly aware of how very difficult it would have been for him to exist in any other environment besides Grimmauld Place. He’s grown up here, a thorny plant raised on the poisonous water, breathing in the vitriolic air, and that doesn’t foster the kind of person who can just pick up and move out. Sirius was different; he’d fought it his whole life like he knew he didn’t belong from the very beginning. He’d tasted the poison and spit it out over and over again.

But Regulus… Regulus is a bit afraid of what life would be like beyond his family. He’s spent so long honing his craft and getting good at keeping a straight face, shutting himself out of his head when things get bad, not flinching when his mother’s spells and words hit, and adjusting his thinking to measuring time in days or hours or minutes depending on how much longer he needed to make it for the pain to stop. It’s stupid, but he thinks that one of the hardest parts would be leaving and no longer needing any of those skills.

Regulus has spent his life becoming an expert at surviving the Black family. What would he be good at if not that? Who would he be?

Of course it’s not the only reason he didn’t leave, but he can recognize that it’s one of them.

He shakes himself out of his reverie as the party moves to the dining room for dinner. It’s pointless to think about such things when there’s no possibility of ever having to face them.

*

On the eighth day, Regulus will freely admit that he’s panicking.

There’s four days left until the Death Eater meeting, and at this rate he’s going to walk out of it with a tacky tattoo on his left arm.

His restlessness leads his mother to stomp upstairs and yell at him. Then she slams the door to his bedroom and locks it with him inside.

At least this way, he’s forced to contain his anxiety.

He lays down on his bed and gazes up at the ceiling like he’s done so many times before.

He presses a hand to the ring where it sits on his chest below his shirt and pushes down on it until he’s sure it’s left a circular indent on the skin above his heart, like the single soft handprint James had left on his shields.

A target, for better or worse.

*

On the ninth day, Kreacher slips Regulus a plate of food while Walburga is distracted by preparations for the meeting.

Regulus sits alone on the floor in the middle of his room and eats it all. It would probably be smarter to ration it—he knows the best strategies and knows that his mother probably doesn’t want to have to deal with him again until Monday—but he finds he doesn’t care.

His life feels precariously balanced on the fulcrum of a seesaw. A plate of food won’t tip it one way or the other.

*

On the tenth day, it finally comes.

It’s before dawn when Regulus is woken from nauseating dreams about masked faces and flashes of light by the screech of an impatient owl at his window.

He tumbles out of bed and pulls the owl in before anyone can hear.

As absurd as it is, the sight of Doppel’s plump feathery body and animated face is a welcome one. Regulus has hardly seen anyone he actually wants to in over a week and the owl reminds him of Barty’s hyena laugh and unkempt hair.

He unties a folder of papers from Doppel’s leg and lets the owl hop around his room in search for food. He’s going to be disappointed, but they can be disappointed together.

Inside the envelope is page upon page of official-looking jargon that Regulus can’t parse without at least an hour and more meals than he’s had in the last two days. But he does find the note in a rigid scrawl he knows well.

Congratulations, you are now a Person of Interest to the Wizengamot and the Ministry of Magic under Statute 387-6B(ii).

Good luck.

Regulus laughs and then he sobs and then he throws a hand over his mouth so that he won’t give his mother something else about him to find fault with.

Doppel flaps his wings in an expression of alarm or a demand for compensation. Regulus writes a quick response and tells Barty to feed the damn bird then sends Doppel on his way, receiving a rather spiteful look in return. But Regulus doesn’t care.

He can breathe easier again, if only a little.

*

On the eleventh day, Regulus studies.

He reads the new statutes going into effect on the first of the new year forwards, backwards, and every way in between.

He’s practically got them memorized as well as exactly what he’s going to say tomorrow night by the time the sun begins to set.

The phrases run a deranged loop in his head as he lays in bed and the darkness ticks towards morning.

*

On the twelfth day, Walburga lets him out of his room.

Hours drip by and Regulus makes his final preparations.

He can tell Kreacher knows something is off with him, but he doesn’t say anything.

When evening comes, the Blacks floo to their country manor that has been polished to a shine over the past week for this event specifically. Regulus wears his night-black dress robes and combs his hair. He tucks the papers into his pocket and checks to make sure that the ring is still on its chain. He smooths away the disrupting lines it creates under where his robes hug his chest.

After dusk, guests begin arriving.

This meeting is slightly different. While the Dark Lord—who no one ever sees arrive, though they all feel it—convenes in the garden parlor with the Marked members, the rest of them mingle with drinks and speak in slightly lighter tones. Regulus supposes it’s a sort of strange concession to the coming New Year and a job-well-done to all the chaos and casualties they’ve caused so far. No one else seems to find it weird like he does though.

At 10:33, the doors to the parlor open and the Dark Lord steps out with his inner circle. Bellatrix holds her head of untamable curls high while she surveys the rest of the Death Eaters, smug grin on her face. When her gaze reaches Regulus, it extends into a mad smile. Regulus just sips his drink.

At 10:37, they are all seated at the table listening to Voldemort monologue about the results their dedication has produced already and the promising future the New Year will bring for their cause.

At 10:42, the meeting begins in earnest. They are informed in vague terms of a raid that will be conducted at the end of January, though they are not afforded any of the details Regulus suspects have been ironed out in the parlor. The attack will require all available bodies, and the stirrings around the table betray the Death Eaters’ hunger for real action. Even the more clean cut of them have been growing restless with the lack of their more destructive public activities as of late.

Regulus holds his tongue and lets the discussion wash over him. He runs his plan without pause and tries to convince his heart that there’s no reason for it to beat as heavily as it is because time will move how time has always moved and there’s nothing he can do about it. He’d considered using this meeting to try to work through Bella’s mind and find the location of another Horcrux, but he’d scrapped the idea early on. He already has far too much to do tonight, and there’s a good chance he won’t make it out. If he doesn’t, then finding the Horcrux will have been pointless. If he does, then it’s an unnecessary risk for something he can find later.

At 12:18, the meeting reaches its closing remarks, and at 12:20 Regulus hears his name.

“Regulus, if you would join us in the parlor, the rest of you are welcome to depart,” Voldemort says.

Regulus knows it’s a cheap trick to dangle his favored status over the rest of the Death Eaters. There’s no mention of what he’ll be doing in the parlor, but they all know.

And at 12:20, Regulus breathes and stands and joins the small crowd of Marked Death Eaters as they file into the room he’s decided he now hates more than any other.

Voldemort and Walburga enter last and the doors close with a click that Regulus feels in his spine. Bellatrix and Rodolphus are there, one eager and avid, one dully curious. There’s Rodolphus’s brother, Rabastan, and Lucius and Abraxas Malfoy. There’s also Dolohov and Avery Sr. and Yaxley, along with Corylus Carrow and his wife.

Regulus feels very much like a child right now, playing at some dark adult’s game no one bothered to teach him the rules to.

His mother comes to stand behind his left shoulder near the windows. He figures she’s been invited as some kind of courtesy since she’s not Marked, like she deserves to see her gift put to good use. Regulus supposes it’s only polite.

Voldemort takes a seat on the sofa facing Regulus, and Regulus readjusts his understanding of the power dynamic to fit this new arrangement. When it was just the two of them here in June, Regulus had been sitting with Voldemort looming over him, a clear effort to intimidate him. Now, Voldemort has arrayed himself like a king, surrounded by his court and ready to receive the fealty of another peon.

So Regulus plays the role and waits for him to speak.

“Regulus, I am so grateful that you have joined us here tonight. You have proven yourself an admirable and willing addition to our cause, and your sacrifice shall now be well rewarded.” Voldemort pauses here and smiles. “I am sure you are aware it is no small feat to enter the ranks of my most trusted friends, especially at your age.”

Regulus bows his head in acknowledgement. His hands are sweating where he’s clasped them behind his back, and he resists the urge to wring them together, aware that his mother could see and pick up on his nerves.

“The Dark Mark is a very special acknowledgment of your loyalty and value to the Death Eaters and myself. Those chosen to bear it do so proudly, and soon our secrecy will reach its dissolution and all the world will know to whom it should pay its greatest respects.”

Regulus wonders if it indicates some lack of value for his own life that he kind of wishes Voldemort would hurry up.

“I will bestow the Mark upon you and your full admission to our ranks shall be complete.”

Voldemort stands and beckons Regulus closer.

“Tell me, Regulus, do you swear your allegiance to myself and our glorious cause on the lifeblood of your noble family for the good of our collective future?”

Regulus takes a breath.

“I do.”

Voldemort smiles wider.

“Excellent.”

He removes that bone wand, and Regulus makes the leap.

“Though I have one concern, my Lord.”

The silence that follows that statement is practically tangible. Or maybe it’s the stillness. He feels more than sees his mother stiffen behind him.

Voldemort looks taken aback having his ceremony interrupted, but he regroups and asks in a slightly colder voice, “And what is that, Regulus?”

Regulus does his best to look unassuming but troubled as he pulls the documents from his pocket.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the Ministry’s efforts to target the Death Eaters in recent months,” he says.

Voldemort cuts him off with an indulgent smile before he can proceed.

“Without success, my boy. You shouldn’t be taking their movements so seriously. They pose no threat to us weighed down by their outdated procedure as they are. You will have your chance to strike against them when the time comes.”

“I anticipate it greatly, my Lord,” Regulus says before Voldemort can write him off completely. “It will be my honor to serve the cause with my wand and my life.”

Voldemort takes a step closer, assuming he’s finished.

“But,” Regulus continues, “I am disturbed by the weakness I might become to the Death Eaters given recent developments in the Wizengamot.”

That word, weakness, pauses Voldemort again, and Regulus rushes forward before it can be misconstrued.

“A statute has passed, to be effective with the new year. I have acquired a copy and fear that my youth, while in no way hindering my devotion to the cause, may prove to be a liability should this law function as I read it.”

He holds out the papers to Voldemort who looks him in the eyes long enough that Regulus checks that his shields are still in place. But then he takes them and scans down the front page. The whole room holds its breath as the lines in his face deepen into a scowl.

When he finishes, Bellatrix rushes around the sofa and wordlessly pleas for the papers. Voldemort hands them to her without a look and instead turns his attention back to Regulus. Behind him, Bella reads and her face contorts with rage. She throws the papers on the ground. Her outburst works to confirm the gravity of the situation to the rest of the Death Eaters, and they shift uncomfortably in their spots.

“I understand I would provide the Ministry with exactly the entry point they desire through this law,” Regulus says. “If they were so emboldened to make a move against us, I believe they would target me as an underaged member of a family already suspect to their investigations, and I would be vulnerable to their pursuit, removed as I am at Hogwarts. It would be the greatest negligence on my part to allow the cause to be jeopardized by my own selfish aspirations for the Dark Mark and official membership to your service, my Lord.”

He's said his piece, a careful concoction of perturbation, regret, and deference that he hopes to any gods that exist came across as genuine.

Now he has to wait.

Voldemort studies him carefully. Behind him, Bellatrix seems to sense the pivotal nature of the moment, tensed and ready to draw her wand and demand blood should Voldemort decide Regulus has deceived him.

But then his demeanor shifts again.

“When is your birthday, Regulus?”

“June, my Lord.”

Voldemort nods solemnly.

“Your attention to our enemies and their movements is admirable. I’m afraid I cannot reward you as your commitment deserves, but you have indeed identified an unfortunate obstacle in our way. In some few months, this might not have been the problem it poses today, but the reality of war is that we will not be able to predict our opponent’s every action.”

He comes forward and lays a consoling hand on Regulus’s shoulder. Regulus holds himself stone still as that familiar pulsing picks up faintly.

“It is a crime that the price of this injustice falls on you, Regulus. But it is another burden you will bear for the cause. Your patience will be dully recognized after you reach your majority.”

Regulus nods again and lowers his eyes, the picture of dignified resignation.

“Until that time, you can be secure in your merit and the service you have done for your Lord.”

He draws away and Regulus lets himself relax the slightest amount.

Voldemort addresses the room.

“Friends, we have seen what kinds of indignities our enemies would force upon us, that one of our youngest and most promising must hide his loyalties so that the rest of us may continue our work. I trust that we will not allow for such an institution to stand in our way.”

There’s a murmur of assent and Voldemort nods again.

“Very well. We emerge into the New Year with our sights set and minds decided. Go now, and await my call.”

Regulus takes his cue to follow the rest of the Death Eaters out of the room while Voldemort remains with Walburga. Whatever they have to say to each other, he doesn’t want to know.

And he doesn’t have the time.

He’s striding towards the sitting room, his heart somehow pounding harder now that his chest seems to be able to expand and contract again. A part of him is shocked that it worked, that three sixteen-year-olds wrote and passed a law that successfully impaired one of Lord Voldemort’s plans—a small, relatively insignificant one, but a plan all the same. The other part of him isn’t surprised at all because the other option was so much worse that it didn’t even register as a possibility.

He’s almost to the front hall when Bellatrix’s nails dig into his shoulder and he freezes.

“Poor Reggie,” she coos. “Another long six months until you get to join the club.”

She prowls around his left and comes to a stop in front of him. Regulus does his best to remain cool and impersonal, but the seconds are counting down in his head. He has to get home before his mother because he doesn’t know when he’ll have another chance like this.

Bellatrix looks up at him and Regulus looks back without giving anything away. She’s difficult to read for the opposite reason that he is. Whatever she’s thinking is hidden behind a hair-trigger temper and several layers of madness. She’s unpredictable and dangerous because of it, and if she thinks his little performance in the parlor was in any way disingenuous, Regulus won’t know before she has him writhing on the ground under her wand. It’s happened before.

She searches his eyes for something Regulus doesn’t give up.

“What a clever little thing you are to watch the legislation. Wherever did you come up with an idea like that, hmm?”

“I read the papers. It’s useful to know how you’re perceived by the world. What people think we’re doing and what they’re doing about it. I believe it’s called tact,” he says, leaning in a bit. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

It’s a gamble, picking a fight like this, but not unheard of for Regulus’s family to make their displeasure about the slightly wilder branch of Blacks known. Bellatrix, while not the black sheep that Andromeda is, is still a long way from the upright, manageable daughter that Narcissa is, something that Walburga brings up periodically with Cygnas and Druella. That is, when she doesn’t have a use for her. Regulus suspects that it was her scorn for Bella’s volatile moods and tendency towards extremes that prompted Cygnas and Druella to marry her off to Rodolphus at their earliest convenience. It was also their rebuttal censuring Sirius that likely drove Walburga to come down on him even harder in the last years of his residence at Grimmauld Place.

Their family has more than enough internal politics to run its own country, but Regulus is happy to pick at the tender threads that serve his purpose right now if it means it will get him out of here faster.

Bellatrix’s eyes narrow at his dig. She opens her mouth to snipe back, but Rodolphus barks her name and enters the hall like an incredibly underwhelming but impeccably timed angel.

Regulus gives Bellatrix a look like Your master is calling and Bella’s glare promises a number of violent ends. He just rolls his eyes as Rodolphus opens the front door for Bellatrix and she waggles her fingers at him in a mocking goodbye.

As soon as the door closes, Regulus dashes to the fireplace in the sitting room. That interaction ate up far too much time, and he surmises that he has a bare four minutes off of his original seven as he throws the floo powder and steps into the flames.

At 12:56, Regulus jumps out of the fire at Grimmauld Place and runs for the staircase.

At 12:57, he’s reached the second floor and his parents’ bedroom. His father is locked away in his office as usual, and Regulus avoids the creaking floorboards like he’s navigating traps laid before a cursed tomb.

At 12:58, he opens the black wooden box that houses his mother’s jewelry. It’s keyed to recognize family blood and that’s the only reason he doesn’t lose a hand in the process. There, nestled in a collection of other heavy silver rings, is the Horcrux. Its pulsing throbs in Regulus’s head and chest this close, but he takes it out carefully and puts it on the floor.

He’d noticed in October that his mother didn’t wear the ring to the Death Eater meeting and suspects that Voldemort instructed her and the others to keep his items in a safe place. Objectively, Walburga is right to wear it; the safest place is the most dangerous place, and there’s nothing more dangerous than the hands of his mother. But she also knows how to read appearances, and it wouldn’t be a good look to show up to another meeting wearing the item she’d been entrusted with as if she didn’t take the Dark Lord’s warning seriously. It probably goes right back on her finger the moment she gets home, but she isn’t home yet and Regulus is counting on the hope that she won’t be for at least another five minutes.

At 12:59, he kneels on the floor of his parents’ bedroom and pulls a silver sickle from his pocket to place next to the ring. Then he tries to steady his breathing. He closes his eyes and lets the sickening pulse of the ring run through him, cataloguing its feel as thoroughly as he can. He picks it up and turns it over in his fingers and the pulse gets stronger as he maps the engravings on the silver and the edges of the stone. He opens his eyes and holds the ring up to the light to catch the color. He lets it dangle from one finger to memorize the weight. He places it back on the floor next to the coin.

At 1:00, Regulus draws his wand and transfigures the coin. It wobbles and melts into an identical replica of the ring.

But the aura isn’t right. It hums like static, constant and steady.

Regulus huffs out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. Then he recenters himself and prepares to try again.

At 1:01, Regulus hears the sigh and crackle of flames from downstairs and his head shoots up. He holds perfectly still, straining his ears against the sudden silence.

Then the click of his mother’s heels sounds against the marble.

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut as his heart kicks up again. Not enough time, not nearly enough.

He transfigures the coin-ring again. Physically, it stays the same, indiscernible from the Horcrux, but this time the aura is like a grating screech, unbound and violent and still not right.

At 1:02, Regulus hears his mother call his name from downstairs.

It’s not a question, it never is. It’s a summons, one that promises something far worse than what’s already waiting for him if he doesn’t heed it immediately.

He thinks he’s close to tears and his hair is stuck to the back of his neck in cold strands soaked by sweat.

He closes his eyes and rolls his shoulders and thinks of James, of the shears and how they’d had to listen and feel the aura and picture it infused with the gleaming metal.

So he listens. He feels. He pictures.

At 1:03, his mother calls his name again, sharper.

At 1:03, Regulus transfigures the coin-ring for a third time.

At 1:03, two identical rings sit side by side, each pulsing with a fundamental wrongness that turns the stomach.

Regulus heaves a relieved breath and drags a sleeve over the sweat on his forehead.

He’s done it. The replica still isn’t perfect, the pulsing a bit slower, the aura a bit shallower, but it’s good enough by far.

He snatches up the Horcrux and fumbles with the silver chain around his neck, his fingers shaky and imprecise. When he gets the clasp undone, he pulls the chain from his shirt and threads the Horcrux next to James’s ring, even as he cringes to see them there next to each other. But he ignores the feeling and slips it back around his neck and under his clothes.

The replica he drops on the top of his mother’s rings and closes the box.

At 1:05, Regulus runs out of his parents’ room and looks over the top of the banister just in time to see Walburga appear at the bottom of the stairs.

She’s done waiting. He’s done running.

“Regulus. Come down here.”

He swallows and takes the stairs one at a time, using the few seconds to check that his breathing is even and his shields are still in place.

His mother is standing with her hands folded over the skirts of her dress in the sitting room. Regulus makes his way to stand in front of her silently. Speaking at moments like these is ill-advised, something Sirius would do. Regulus knows better.

She says nothing for a moment. Then-

“Do you know how hard I work for this family? To ensure that we receive the respect we are due?”

Don’t say anything.

“It is an endless job, Regulus. A thankless one.”

Don’t say anything.

“I had thought that I’d taught you to have an appreciation for this House. Tell me, how are we meant to garner the respect of others when you yourself are so frivolous with our reputation?”

Not a question. Don’t say anything.

“Do you think it was easy to secure you a place in the Dark Lord’s inner circle? That you actually deserve it? That he would have noticed your more useful qualities had I not brought them to his attention? The very ones you thought to conceal from your own mother?”

A hand lashes out and slams into his brow. Regulus feels his head snap to the side, feels the heat rush to his temple and the pain following on its heels, feels the small trickle of blood slide down his face from where her jewelry caught.

Say something.

“No, Mother.”

But she’s not done.

“You were so promising,” she spits, shaking her head. “So unlike that ineffectual, blood traitor brother of yours. For a moment, I thought I saw something of myself in you.”

And at that, Regulus finally flinches.

Walburga, of course, doesn’t miss it. Her frown deepens and her brows lower.

“But it seems I was mistaken.”

She produces her wand from the folds of her dress.

“This family needs an heir, Regulus. And for better or worse, that is you. If I must shape you into it myself, I will do so gladly.”

Regulus knew this was coming.

Nothing is without a price in his family, no debt left uncollected. If he didn’t see her plan to instate him as the youngest Marked Death Eater through to completion, he would just have to pay some other way. It’s a trade he’d decided to make months ago, when he’d first learned there was a way to delay the Mark.

Now the debt is due.

And as usual, Regulus has nothing but his blood to offer as currency.

He counts himself lucky that she still accepts it.

“Remove your robes.”

His hands don't even shake as he undoes the ties down the sides of his robes and starts the process of pulling himself away from the sitting room, away from the house and his mother and the moment. If a legilimens were to peer into his mind right now, Regulus suspects it would look very much like the tide of his consciousness has retreated far away from the shore. He pulls off the billowy outer layer of his clothes until he stands in his slacks and button down shirt.

As he folds his robes neatly and places them on the sofa, he thinks about one of his occlumency lessons with James and “making space.” He'd been so bad at it compared to Regulus, but then again, Regulus has had ample practice drawing into himself and away from the world.

“Turn around.”

Regulus presents his mother with his unprotected back, her preferred canvas. He finds the decorative clock in the center of the black marble mantel and pins his eyes to its hands just as he always does.

He’s far, far away by the time his mother raises her wand.

At 1:14, Walburga whips the first curse at his back.

He’s present enough to note that she’s not restraining herself, that the first one has broken skin already, and the stupid, relentlessly practical part of his brain nods with approval that he thought to wear a dark shirt.

Regulus starts counting strikes instead of time. It’s all up anyway.

By the fourth, his back feels as wet as it does after he’s played a long game of Quidditch, though only partly due to sweat.

By the ninth, his head is pounding, some combination of the throbbing pain and the pulsing Horcrux around his neck, like it’s feeding on his agony.

The tenth sends him to his knees. This seems to anger Walburga further. He usually lasts longer.

As the lashes continue, Regulus is aware of his consciousness creeping back to shore. The pain always brings it back. He focuses on holding it off even though he knows it’s futile.

At the fourteenth, his arms buckle and he falls to his side.

But she’s not stopping.

Regulus has enough time to think that he may have overestimated his chances of walking away from this one before the next lacero cuts into his unprotected waist.

She’s losing her grip, throwing curses at him without a care for where they land. He feels the skin over his stomach and ribs split open.

He pulls his arms up just in time to catch a lash that would have hit his face. And he lays like that, blocking her anger from tearing open his neck and the fabric of his shirt that hides the rings.

Usually her punishments are measured and methodical. He’s only ever seen her this indiscriminate last April, when the only reason Sirius made it out alive was because Regulus interrupted her when he was no longer sure she would stop herself.

There’s no one left to interrupt her on his behalf, he thinks as his head hits the carpet.

It’s oddly spongy. Soggy with his own blood he realizes.

She’ll kill him for ruining it.

He doesn’t think much more after that.

Chapter Text

“Centaur, unicorn, thestral.”

“Well obviously fuck the centaur. And you can’t kill a unicorn, so I guess marry the unicorn, kill the thestral.”

“You’d kill a thestral? But they’re so gentle!”

“Well, you definitely can’t fuck a unicorn, you’re kind of backing me into a corner here.”

“If you can fuck a centaur isn’t that kind of the same thing as fucking a unicorn? Like in terms of mechanics?”

“It’s not about the mechanics, Moony. There’s a- a moral imperative about desecrating a unicorn. I’m not about to cross that line- stop laughing, Prongs, there’s only one right answer here!”

“Why did you call it desecrating?” James gasps through his laughter. “Is that what you do to Moony?”

“I have received more than one fervent request that I not share the sacred details of what I do to Moony so I am respectfully declining to answer that question,” Sirius says primly as he leans back on his elbows.

This sets James off again and gets an eye roll from Remus. They’re piled back on Sirius’s bed whiling away the late hours—or rather, very early hours—while none of them want to go to sleep.

They’d spent the day enjoying the fresh snow by dragging a sheet of metal from the garden shed up to a nearby hill and seeing what all the fuss was about muggle sledding. It’s not nearly as sophisticated as flying a broom, but James can admit that there’s something fundamentally deranged about holding on to a piece of aluminum for dear life and careening down a slope with no control, narrowly dodging trees and listening to Sirius scream in your ear, that really speaks to the essence of Marauderdom. They’d ended up soaked through and caked with snow with a few bruises to go around between them. The walk back had been more of a drunken meander as Remus and Sirius tried to aim James towards the house when he was more inclined to list to his right the whole way after having collided with a tree.

Effie and Monty had been properly amused by their return looking more like they’d spent the day wrestling snow monsters and losing badly. Monty had offered to make soup while they cleaned up and Sirius had asked more than once if it had healing properties during dinner.

They were tired but unwilling to end the day, thus their current arrangement draped over each other on Sirius’s bed while the fire crackled peacefully in the hearth. Conversation had flowed naturally into their current summit on the ethics of engaging in sexual acts with various magical creatures.

James takes his glasses off and wipes his eyes.

“Moony, it’s your turn. Make it good.”

Remus sighs and thinks for a moment.

“Acromantula, cockatrice…”

He grins evilly.

“Giant squid.”

James and Sirius groan.

“What are we supposed to say to that?”

“I think we have to marry the cockatrice. It’s a sort of dragon, right? Maybe it’d have a hoard that it would bring to the marriage. I’m not above being a trophy husband.”

“Brilliant, Prongs. So are you fucking the spider or the squid?”

“Um.”

Fortunately, James is saved from having to answer that question by the sound of a chime ringing through the house.

James’s head snaps up.

“What was that?” Remus asks.

“Wards,” James answers, pushing himself off the bed. “Someone’s gotten past the wards.”

Remus and Sirius exchange a troubled look and follow James out of the bedroom. The hallway is dark and quiet, and James stops by his own room to scoop his wand off his nightstand. The wards had always been more of a ceremonial thing to James, that is until the night Sirius had arrived and James had nearly worked himself into a panic thinking his parents would follow soon after him. Monty had explained to James that the wards would warn them before they could make it to the house, having been placed at the very far end of the winding front path. James hasn’t taken them for granted since.

The three of them make their way across the landing in their sweaters and pajama pants and start down the stairs. From what he can see of the dark beyond the front windows, the snow is coming down hard, ghostly and silent in the night. Something about the late hour tilts the whole thing at a disturbing angle; the friendly chime of the wards set mostly to alert the house of visitors felt out of place and foreboding with the stillness.

James isn’t sure if the chime woke his parents where they sleep on the ground floor or if he, Sirius, and Remus only heard it because they were already awake.

It’s nearing two in the morning. No one should be here.

They set feet on the cold tile of the entryway and approach the front door. James peers around the edge of the windows next to the front door to see if he can spot anyone, but there’s no one that he can see.

“Sirius, go check from the sitting room window and see if you can see anyone at the door from there.”

He does and James hears him say from the other room, “Nobody.”

He comes back and the three of them look at each other.

“I think we’d better go see what it is, then.”

They pull on coats and stuff their feet in boots that they don’t bother to tie before unlocking the door and taking the stairs out into the snow.

James lights his wand and holds it out in front of him while he surveys what little he can see of the garden and the path. Sirius and Remus do the same and take positions on either side of him before they sink into the fresh snow. Sirius heads towards the line of trees to the left, while Remus gives James a look and veers right towards the side of the house. James turns his attention to where he can barely see the outline of the path under the snow and begins to make his way into the dark.

The crunch of his boots sounds shocking and close with nothing else disturbing the night. From either side he can hear fainter versions from Sirius and Remus and every once in a while, the wind will gust and the trees will hiss in response. James pulls his jacket tighter around himself and sweeps the light from his wand back and forth where it glows against the snow an empty blue.

At one point he looks around himself and sees nothing but the dark and the looming trees and the faraway stars barely visible through the blowing snow. He checks behind himself to make sure that he can still follow his footprints back towards the house.

He knows he’s reached the end of the path when he feels a tingle from the invisible wards against his skin. Beyond them, the snow is unmarred. Whoever crossed the wards either did so at another location or their footprints have already filled in. James cautiously turns away, reluctant to have the emptiness behind him. He trudges to his left just far enough that he can cover new ground and still make out his trail of footprints and starts back towards the house.

He’s been going that way for about five minutes when something catches his eye and stops him walking.

At first he thinks it’s a shadow; the light from his wand catches on the bumps and ridges of the snow and speckles the white with stark shadows that shift and swing with James’s gait. But this one doesn’t move, and it’s more solid. James slowly changes course until he can inspect it up close.

He crouches down and holds his wand directly over it. Snow has already begun to blot it out, and he uses one finger to wipe it away. He’s momentarily confused when it seems to stick to his finger, but when he rubs at it, it thins into a redder substance.

Blood. A drop of it sinking into the snow and darkened to ink by the cold.

James lurches to his feet and whips his wand around him.

There, a few feet ahead, another patch of black, this time not just an isolated drop but a whole long smear.

James stomps his way towards it and past it, making note of the direction before he spots the next, another large blot, blacker like it might be fresher. He notices the indents in the snow between them, but they’re not spaced out like footprints, more like a slow, continuous drag that deepens the farther he follows it. The blood appears more frequently too until James is stumbling alongside a skidding line of it.

At the end of the line he spots a dark object sunken into a patch of snow and stops.

Whatever the thing is, it was headed towards the house. James can see the warm glow of the front light from here.

But it never made it.

James takes careful steps towards the thing and raises his wand higher. It has to be some kind of animal, maybe a fox or a raccoon, but that wouldn’t explain why the wards detected it. James squints at where the thing lays with a thin layer of snow gathering on its flank.

Then James spots a pointed ear. Then a long, agile tail and he drops his wand.

“No…”

He rushes through the drift and trips onto his knees. The snow immediately begins to soak through his pajama pants but he hardly notices. His hands flutter around the still, blood-soaked form of the cat.

“No, no, nononono, oh merlin fuck-”

He snatches for his wand with shaking fingers and pulls the light closer, though the second he does he wishes he hadn’t. The cat—his cat—has its clever silver eyes closed and its head tucked down. Where before it was lithe and strong, it now just looks thin, thinner still with the way the blood and snow have seeped into its fur and plastered it against its body. The snow around it has absorbed much of the blood already, and James can just make out the edges of the deep stain creeping outward as the seconds tick by.

He grazes his fingers along its exposed side. They come away damp and sticky. Its body is cold.

James lets out a sound that might be a sob; his breathing has already become so erratic that he’s not sure the difference. But he steels himself and places a hand back on its side and waits. The blood is pushing up between his fingers like the tears James can feel pushing at the back of his eyes but then, there, the cat moves slightly with one shallow breath.

James squeezes his eyes shut and grips a hand at the roots of his hair.

“Oh gods, come on please- Sirius!” he yells into the night.

Distantly, he hears quick steps crunching through the snow and “Prongs?” shouted back but he can’t tear his eyes away from his cat to look for him. He needs his best friend, his brother, now, to come and fix this because James doesn’t know what to do and the cat has barely moved and there’s so, so much blood, how can there be so much blood-

Sirius drops down at his side and grabs his shoulders.

“Prongs? What’s wr- what is that?”

James is hanging off his forearm but still looking at the cat. He’s afraid if he shifts his gaze even for a second, when he looks back it won’t be breathing anymore, like his eyes are the sole force keeping it alive.

“Sirius, please, I can’t- you have to get mum, it’s- I don’t know if I can heal it-”

“James? James, it’s alright, it’ll be-

“Sirius, get mum, please!”

Sirius stumbles back to his feet with a bewildered look at James but dutifully begins running back to the house. James hears him shout to Remus and say something that he doesn’t catch.

James swallows and sticks his wand in his pocket. Then he strips off his sweater, dislodging his glasses in the process. The wind and snow bite at his bare arms, and it's so cold he might as well not even be wearing a t-shirt but he doesn’t feel it. He lays the sweater on the snow next to the cat. Then he takes one deep breath.

“Alright, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay.”

He edges his hands under the cat as gently as he can and tries to lift it, but something catches. James pulls his hands back immediately and restrains another sob when he realizes that the blood has frozen the cat’s fur to the snow. So instead, he scrapes underneath one layer of red crust and this time when he lifts, he moves the cat’s limp body and the snow all in one to his sweater.

He’s vaguely aware that his hands are thoroughly red, rivulets dripping down his wrists, as he begins folding the fabric of the sweater, still warm from his body, around the cat.

“You’ll be fine, we’re going to get you warm, and then we’re going to fix all of this and it’ll all be fine-”

“James!”

Remus crouches down next to him.

“Are you alright, mate? What’s going on?”

“I have to help it, I have to get it back to the house.”

Remus looks to the bundle of sweater and the cat’s head barely poking out of the top but doesn’t ask any questions.

“Okay. Here, open your arms.”

Remus gathers up the cat and the sweater and places it against James’s chest where he holds it close. Then he casts a warming charm around them both and pulls James to his feet.

“Come on, then. Healing spells won’t work on an animal but your mum’ll have dittany, that should at least slow the bleeding.”

James sniffs and lets Remus take him by the elbow and guide him back towards the light of the house. He’s not sure if he should hold the cat tighter to warm it or looser so he doesn’t hurt it. The decision is wreaking havoc in his brain.

Before he can really lose it, he hears his mother’s voice call his name. He looks up and sees her silhouetted in the doorway with Monty tying off his robe next to her.

“James, darling, what’s the matter?” she says hurrying down the front steps.

“Mum, you have to fix it, please, we have to help it, it’s- it’s bleeding, my cat’s hurt-”

“Alright, James, alright, bring it inside where it’s warm,” Effie says, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and peering into the bundled sweater. “Monty, get my kit from the closet.”

She ushers him and the cat into the sitting room, and Sirius turns on a lamp and drags it to the low coffee table between the sofas. James and Remus transfer the cat carefully to the table and unwrap the fabric, stained reddish black. James kneels on the carpet by the table and leans over the cat; it’s even worse looking in the warm lamplight, like a morbid still-life painting in hues of scarlet and gold and black. He brushes one shaking finger along the fur between its ears, just like the first time it had allowed him to pet it.

“You’re okay, you’re going to be okay,” he says, but it feels like it does when he’s casting a spell, something he’s trying to will into existence.

“James, I’m going to need you to move, dear,” his mother says. She’s got a bag in instruments and bandages and potions that she always keeps well-stocked from her days at St. Mungo’s.

James vaguely feels Sirius tugging on his shoulder and lets his brother pull him back so that he’s sitting on the sofa out of Effie’s way. She unscrews a vial of clear liquid and begins placing drops that hiss and steam along the garish open wounds.

“This will slow the bleeding, but some of these are deep and magic won’t work on an animal. We may be resorting to muggle practices,” she says in an even voice James recognizes from when he’d get sick as a child.

“We could stitch them if you have the material,” Remus suggests. “That’s what my mum always used to do if my dad was away.”

“I could use your help then, Remus. I haven’t had to stitch a patient closed in quite some time.”

She works her way down the cat’s body and along the other side. Most of the lacerations are on its back, though some appear on its legs and across its stomach. James can’t sort his mind enough to remember if the cat had scars in those places when he’d found the others some weeks ago. For some reason, it matters to him whether or not a new boundary was crossed and some previously untouched part of the cat was mutilated.

When the time comes for the stitching, James grips Sirius’s hand with his own bloody ones. Monty finds a needle and thread and Remus shows Effie how to tie the knot and trim the thread after each stitch. She only works on the deeper wounds, but it’s still far too many. James can feel the warm tears tracking paths down his face as he waits for the next flash of the needle.

After what feels like hours, Effie pulls away and wipes her forehead with her sleeve, her hands too red to do the job. The cat lays as still as ever, looking more like a sad stuffed toy in the aftermath of some psychotic child's tantrum, held together limply by thread.

“Is it- alright?” James manages to ask. “Will it be alright?”

“It needs a blood replenishing potion,” Effie says resolutely.

Monty takes this as his cue to scrounge one up from his potions lab in the basement. Effie draws it carefully into a syringe and asks Remus to hold the cat’s mouth open. She sticks the syringe deep in its throat and James closes his eyes.

Effie wipes her hands on a tea towel and hands it to Remus to do the same.

“It’s alright, James. It’s over.” She pats a hand on his knee. “If it survived that then all there is to do now is keep it warm and apply the dittany again in a few hours.

James drops his head into his hands and takes one moment to savor the dark, the complete lack of red.

When he can speak again, he croaks, “Thanks, mum.”

“Of course, darling." James feels her gentle, familiar hand in his hair. "You both need rest now. We can talk about this more in the morning.”

Monty pulls a throw blanket from the sofa and swaddles the cat in it. He then lets James take it from him as Sirius keeps a hand on his arm and follows him slowly up the stairs with Remus. The lamp from the sitting room stays on, and James imagines his parents will be awake quite a bit longer.

James brings the cat into his own room and pulls another blanket off the bed to drop by the fireplace. He sets the cat down gently then pats himself down for his wand. Remus hands it to him wordlessly but beats him to lighting a fire in the hearth. James nods his thanks but can’t really bring himself to do anything else. He feels thoroughly paralyzed, like he’s been put under a full body-bind and made to watch some atrocity play out while he couldn’t do a damn thing.

“James,” Sirius says from behind him. James turns to look at him hollowly.

“You should hop in the shower, mate. You’ve got-” and he gestures to his own face in a roundabout way.

James remembers then that there’s blood on his hands, that it was still there when he’d covered his face downstairs.

“Oh. Yeah.” He really should clean up, but the idea of letting the cat out of his sight even for a moment earns a resurgence of the panic he thought he’d finally gotten under control.

“We’ll keep an eye on it, Prongs,” Remus says, reading his mind yet again.

James nods.

“Yeah. Alright then. Thanks.”

He doesn’t think a whole lot during the shower, which might be for the best because there’s way too much to begin with. But he does feel slightly better by the end, more human and less like he’s a character in some fucked up muggle horror movie.

When he leaves his bathroom toweling off his hair, Sirius and Remus are sat together on the floor by the cat talking quietly. They stop when he enters the room.

“Think maybe we should get some sleep,” Sirius says.

“Okay.” The adrenaline is draining out of his body now, leaving him worn and empty. He crawls into bed with only the light from the fire casting low, dancing shadows around the lumpy form of the cat in its blankets.

Sirius and Remus close the door with one last look in his direction.

While he was sure less than an hour ago that there was no way he’d be able to sleep with all the blood coating his hands and the sight of his friend lying prone on his coffee table, it comes anyway, swiftly and blessedly deep.

*

Sirius sneaks back into James’s room 30 minutes after he and Remus put him to bed.

He’s asleep, thank Merlin; Sirius had been half worried he’d stay up all night fretting over the cat with nothing to show for it.

Sirius and Remus had only exchanged a few speculations during James’s shower, with most of Sirius’s being vehement demands for explanations about the origins of a cat none of them had ever seen or heard of before but that James had called his, and most of Remus’s being measured agreements and placation. He has a feeling that Remus is harboring a theory, and his theories are never wrong, but it’s also useless to try to get it out of him before he’s ready to share it.

Now, Sirius closes the door and shifts into Padfoot. The complexities of his concern dull to a manageable buzz, replaced by a clear, pointed worry about his best friend. Padfoot hops up on the bed and settles down over the blankets, one eye on James, one eye on the cat. He’s not tired, so instead he keeps watch where James looks bare and vulnerable without his glasses sharpening those warm eyes.

Sirius hadn’t always known how to navigate Padfoot’s emotions; it seemed like a bad idea in the beginning to give someone like him, someone with so many strong feelings to begin with, a form where there was no way to mitigate them. But Padfoot had actually simplified things, and he often found himself clear-headed following full moon nights.

Padfoot had given him something else too. While the animagus transformation was a group project, their forms were individual and came with intricacies that could never be explained fully to anyone else. With Padfoot had come the idea of pack.

Pack was something that Sirius was both familiar with and not. He knew about it in the more literal sense that Remus had explained to them, that Padfoot and Prongs and Wormtail were animals that Moony felt kinship with, that he’d work with them to survive if they were put in that position. But pack was also something that Sirius felt had existed for him long before he’d ever been Padfoot. He would choose James and Remus and Peter over nearly everyone else in the whole world, and he had been using them to survive for years now. Pack to Padfoot was just a confirmation of everything he’d already known.

Pack had also been another special tie to Remus, just between the two of them. Sirius warms as he remembers that conversation last winter before he’d had a chance to fuck everything up. They’d been dancing around each other for so long at that point; in retrospect, Remus’s devotion to him is so obvious, and his own yet unrealized infatuation with Remus seems to color his every word and action. Sirius had told him about the feeling of pack and trying to put language to it. He’d said that it felt like belonging, a bone-deep rightness about being with Prongs and Wormtail and Moony under the monstrous trees of the forest. He’d imagined that he would feel off-kilter and lost if he’d been without them.

Remus had of course understood, said he felt it too, that Moony belonged with Prongs and Wormtail and Padfoot. It was a dog thing, he said with a shrug. The others wouldn’t really get it. But he’d also admitted to another side of pack. In addition to the belonging with, Moony experienced an additional belonging to. It ran deeper and stronger and sometimes darker than anything Padfoot felt, with more potential for satisfaction but equal potential for pain. Remus had looked a bit embarrassed and a bit scared as he’d told Sirius about the possessive streak Moony had for the Marauders. They were unequivocally his, his to have and protect. And he was theirs too, in the way that anything willing to stand between you and death was.

Sirius had known that Remus thought he was disclosing something shameful, but all he’d felt at the time was pride. They were Moony’s. He was Moony’s. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

As Padfoot, those memories are reduced to their sensations. He lays on the bed and traces a careful line between what he’s feeling and why he’s suddenly feeling it now. Then his head turns to the cat.

Padfoot, chronically curious of all things small and furry, leaps down from the bed and plods closer to where the cat sleeps by the fire. He doesn’t want to wake it, but he does want to know more.

He nudges his nose between the folds of the blanket and sniffs at the cat’s fur.

He pulls back puzzled, then sniffs again.

Then he huffs and circles the cat once before laying down, curling himself around it.

Past the waft of smoke and the muzzy scent of the blankets, underneath the tang of dittany and leftover blood, the cat smells like pack too.

It belongs here with him, its open wounds and scars and the peace finally found by the firelight all quite familiar in some way.

*

James wakes on New Years Eve to stark blue skies and an unfiltered sunshine that only comes from light reflected off of snow.

He takes a moment to slap around his nightstand for his glasses and wonder why his head hurts already. It’s later than he usually wakes, but the house is still and quiet.

When he props himself up on his elbows and runs a hand through his hair, he sees an odd pile of blankets on the floor next to the smoldering remnants of the hearth.

Then he remembers.

Last night. The wards, the snow and the dark, the blood, all of it on the snow and his hands and soaking into his sweater.

The cat.

James’s stomach flips as he scrambles out of bed and only just holds himself back from running over to the blanket pile. Instead he takes a breath and steps as quietly as he can across the floorboards. He kneels in front of the lump and takes a chance, pulling down the edge of the blankets with one careful finger and peeking in.

The cat’s body still looks a bit like an amateur quilt job, but its chest rises and falls with stronger, steadier breaths than it had the night before.

James closes his eyes and sits back on his heels. It’s not dead, that’s all that matters. It’s patched up, and it survived the night, and it will heal more, and it’s not where anyone can hurt it.

When he opens them again, he’s met with a groggy silver gaze.

He huffs out a surprised laugh and runs a hand through his hair.

“Good morning. Welcome to the land of the living.”

The cat’s eyes narrow more like it’s saying Are you finished with the dramatics?

“I’ll be as dramatic as I please, thank you. It’s a privilege you earn when your friends turn up on your doorstep covered in blood.”

The cat lets out a little breath but concedes. James reaches out with two fingers, giving the cat time to deny him, but it just lays still as he pets between its ears.

“You sure know how to scare the shit out of me,” he says to himself.

The cat’s eyes slip closed again.

James sighs and reaches forward to gather the cat and the blankets up. Now that the fire’s out and there’s no pressing risk of hypothermia, he doesn’t want to leave it on the floor. He scoops them up in his arms and carries the bundle over to his bed, laying it all out near the pillows. The cat cracks one tired eye to see what he’s up to but shuts it again when it’s decided there’s no issue.

James closes his curtains to block out the sunlight and backs towards the door. He slips into the hall and closes it as quietly as he can. He leans his forehead against it and closes his eyes, wondering how he can already feel so tired.

“Prongs?”

Down the hall, Sirius and Remus are standing in Sirius’s doorway looking at him with concern.

James straightens up and says, “Hey.”

“Alright?”

“Yeah,” James nods. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

They make their way towards him and Sirius puts a hand on his shoulder.

“How’s the cat?”

“Alright too. Tired. I think it’ll be okay though. I was just going to let it sleep more before sending Mum up with the dittany.”

Sirius gives him a searching look before nodding his agreement.

“What say we get some breakfast? You look like eggs might save your life right now.”

James finds himself smiling in return, and the three of them head downstairs.

Effie and Monty are already awake and sitting around the kitchen table with the paper. When James enters the room, they look up and smile cautiously. It seems like everyone in the house was waiting on him to decide how the day is going to go.

“Morning, dear. How are you feeling?”

James repeats a similar version of what he told Sirius not five minutes ago. It’s not a lie necessarily; he is doing alright, all things considered, but it’s a very fragile alright and he thinks they all know it. Remus offers to help Monty make a full fry-up and soon the comforting smells of sausage and eggs have filled the kitchen while Sirius and James set the table. After they’ve all crowded around the table and sorted drinks (Sirius clamors for the coffee while Remus eyes him warily and stirs his tea), they dig in. James can admit there’s something renewing about the warm food and persistent sunshine and familiar banter of his family.

It lulls him into a sense of safety so complete that he’s not even adverse to their expectant looks when they’re plates are empty.

“Alright,” he says, pulling himself up in his chair. “What do you want to know?”

“When the hell did you get a cat?” Sirius blurts. Remus smacks his arm and he has the decency to look a little sheepish. James just smiles, at both how predictable his best friends are and the early memories of his time with the cat.

“Well, it’s not really mine. I think it’d claw you up to hear you say that,” he starts. “I met it back in September. I just… needed some space for a while and went to the Astronomy Tower one evening and it was there. At first it wanted nothing to do with me, but it warmed up after a while. We’re sort of friends now. I think.”

Monty sits back and folds his arms.

“So this cat’s from Hogwarts? How did it get all the way here then?”

That’s a good point.

“Honestly, I’ve no idea. I guess I don’t actually know that much about it,” James admits. “But I do know it’s not just a regular old cat. It’s smart, for one thing. Like super aware. It can understand you when you’re talking to it. And it teases sometimes, it knows exactly what it’s doing,” he says with a smile. “Plus it can read.”

“The cat can fucking read?”

“Sirius…”

“Sorry, Mum.”

“Yeah, it tried to drop a book on my head.”

He receives a few concerned looks at that.

“It was funny, I swear. You had to be there.”

“Sure, mate.”

Before they can really get into it, Remus says, “Those scratches last night weren’t from an animal,” and the mood cools again.

“I know,” James says. “I noticed similar scars on it at Hogwarts, though none of them were this bad or this recent. I think they have to be from magic.”

No one has anything to say about that, though Sirius shifts in his chair.

“What will you do when it’s healed?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure there’s anything I can do. I don’t know where it lives and it’s rather independent besides. I would offer…”—James hesitates and looks to his parents— “to let it stay here, if you’re alright with that. But I really don’t think it would stay.”

Monty just looks at Effie and shrugs.

“I like cats. Especially well-read ones.”

Effie just smiles back at him.

James laughs a little.

“Well, I’ll certainly throw it out there. I don’t really think it’s in a position to think too hard today though.”

“Of course not, dear.” Effie pats his hand and stands from the table. “Why don’t you boys clean up and I’ll check on our guest.”

The rest of the day is rather aimless and lazy. They clear the table while Effie applies another dose of dittany to the cat’s wounds. She tells them when she comes back downstairs that it just needs rest now and not to bother it if they don’t have to.

James feels like they’re all sort of tethered to the house by the commotion from last night. At one point, Monty bundles up to walk to the ward perimeter and check that they’re all still functioning well, but besides that they stay inside. Effie lures Sirius into helping her bake cookies, and that lures Remus into hanging around the kitchen to tag team with Effie while they poke fun at Sirius and steal dough from the bowl.

James finds himself drawn to Monty’s quieter presence, and they spend most of the day reading in the sitting room. Every once in a while, he’ll glance at the coffee table and look for spots of blood or any sign that it had served as an operating table not twelve hours ago but finds none. He thinks Monty notices his looks, but if he does he doesn’t say anything.

It’s not the New Years Eve they had planned for. Effie and Monty were originally going to go to a party at a friend’s house (which James suspected to be an Order of the Phoenix party), but they seemed to have no qualms sending their regrets and staying in for the night. James, Remus, and Sirius hadn’t made any wild plans either; with the rest of their friends abroad, the most they’d get up to would be snatching a bottle of liquor and setting off the fireworks they’d bought from Zonko’s in the backyard.

But with recent events, they all seem content to crowd around the sitting room fireplace and talk late into the night. Monty produces a bottle of champagne, and James, Sirius, and Remus regale his parents with tales from the Dueling Tournament: Benjy getting his ass kicked and Mary’s shameless enthusiasm, Sirius and Remus’s legendary showdown (Sirius’s words, Remus’s fond eye roll), Marlene falling promptly and deeply in love with Dorcas Meadowes after she showed her no mercy.

“That certainly sounds like a good bit of fun,” Effie comments brightly. “I wonder why it’s taken them so long to institute a tournament. They certainly didn’t have anything of the sort in our day.”

“Well, they didn’t want to ruin morale, my love,” Monty says, stretching his arms across the top of the sofa and around Effie’s shoulder. “I imagine it would have been quite embarrassing when I’d beaten them all without breaking a sweat.”

There’s a moment a complete silence as Effie turns one incredulous look at her husband.

“Alright then, on your feet.”

James and Sirius exchange expressions of pure delight, and Remus seems like he’s trying to sort out if what he thinks is happening is actually happening while Effie gestures a grinning Monty off the sofa.

Less than ten minutes later, James, Remus, and Sirius are applauding while Effie wrings a concession of victory from Monty, who’s suspended midair and not quite able to get the words out through his laughter.

“James, I didn’t have ‘Watch Prongs’s Mum and Dad Duel Between Flights of Champagne’ on my list of expectations when I agreed to spend New Years here,” Remus murmurs to him.

“We like to think we’re good hosts,” he says back. “It’s important to keep guests entertained,” which earns Remus’s deep raspy laugh.

Sirius looks at Effie like she’s his new hero and demands to know where she learned to duel like that as she and Monty drop back onto the sofa. They never do get a straight answer, though they listen to an excellent story Monty tells about Effie almost drawing her wand against their neighbor to the south when he’d kept sending gnomes from his garden into theirs while Effie protests that she’d only been drawing her wand to expel the gnomes and of course she wouldn’t have dueled their neighbor even if he did deserve it. James isn’t completely convinced and says as much, sparking a new debate.

By the time the clock from the hall strikes midnight, they’re sated and happy and maybe a little tipsy off the champagne, but Monty raises his empty glass in one last toast, “To a new year spent with friends and family close.” They echo the sentiment and James’s parents share a kiss that’s less of a kiss and more of a smile. Beside him, Sirius and Remus seem a bit unsure of themselves until Sirius stretches up and pulls Remus into their own kiss. Then he tucks his head under Remus’s chin and lets him run fingers through his hair while he hums Auld Lang Syne quietly.

James closes his eyes for a moment and allows himself to soak up his family’s happiness in the dark. He kind of wishes he had his own person to kiss right now. He thinks he’d be really good at a New Year’s kiss; the whole notion just agrees with him, a gesture of pure affection to communicate all the gratitude and hope balanced on the knife point of midnight to the one person you want to share it with most.

He vaguely thinks Regulus could use some gratitude and hope, then decides he should probably call it a night.

He wishes everyone goodnight and makes his way upstairs. Despite the lethargy of the day and the laidback joy of the evening, he still finds himself a bit tired and a bit lonely in that way he gets every time he thinks of Regulus.

He washes up and throws on his pajamas and is just taking off his glasses when he notices the bundle of blankets still on his bed and instantly feels a little guilty for probably waking the cat. It’s on the far side and facing him which is good because that at least means it’s moved during the day even if it doesn’t look all that mobile right now. James slips under the sheets as carefully as he can and settles on his side so he can watch the cat where it still sleeps.

Then, without letting himself think too hard about it, he leans forward and drops a quick kiss on the cat’s head.

The cat’s ear twitches and then one silver eye cracks open like What do you think you’re doing?

James just rolls onto his back and rearranges his pillow.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep? It’s late, you’re injured, you’re probably hallucinating things at this point.”

If he’s not mistaken, James hears a little growl from his left and can’t smother his smile.

He closes his eyes and whispers, “Happy New Year,” before he falls asleep.

*

The cat sleeps for another day, which Effie takes as a good thing and James takes as a thing that’s testing his patience. He knows it needs rest, but at some point sleeping for so long just becomes a coma. Effie seems unimpressed with his medical knowledge when he expresses this thought to her.

On Thursday, however, James wakes to find the cat perched on the seat by his window looking down into the garden.

“You’re up,” he says as he grabs for his glasses.

The cat looks over its shoulder at him as if to say Clearly. It’s still a bit of a shock to see its sleek coat interrupted by intervals of stitches carving it up like pieces of train track, but the attitude is back in its eyes and James is just happy to see it out of its blanket nest.

“Would you like to come downstairs?”

The cat watches him for another moment before rising to its feet. It surveys the jump down from the window bench and takes it slowly, though the landing still looks a bit unsteady. Then it follows James to doorway and out of the room.

Something about walking down the upstairs hallway of his house with the silent steps of the cat trailing along after him makes James smile so big he has to let it all out before the cat can see. It looks warily at the flight of stairs where they stand at the top and then turns its head to James.

“I’m going to pretend not to be insulted by the reluctance of that request,” he says as he crouches down and picks the cat up as delicately as he can so as not to pull the stitches. It settles against him without fuss as they make their way downstairs and into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Effie says from the stove. She smiles wider when she sees the cat. “You’re looking much better today.”

The cat ducks its head a little in response and, if James is reading it right, in thanks.

Effie chuckles and turns back to the stove.

“I think you ought to try eating something. I’ve warmed some chicken broth so it might be easier on your stomach. Then it looks like those stitches can come out tomorrow afternoon if you don’t mess with them.”

She sets a steaming dish on the counter. The cat’s nose twitches and it looks up at James.

“What?”

It continues to stare at him, then James gets it.

“Oh, am I your sherpa now? Apologies, your highness, allow me to escort you to your table.”

James carries the cat to the counter and deposits it by the bowl of broth. The cat laps at it without a second glance in his direction. He huffs a laugh at its blatant entitlement but can’t deny that he’s been dying to hold that cat since the second time they met so his complaints are largely for the sake of complaining.

He rolls his eyes when the cat finishes with its broth and looks back at him expectantly but picks it up.

“Come on, I’ll give you the tour,” he offers as if the cat has a choice in the matter.

He walks through his house with the cat in his arms talking nonsense and quite enjoying himself the whole time.

“This is the dining room, that’s a closet, I accidentally locked myself in there when I was eight, this is the front entry way, that’s the sitting room, that’s Sirius and Remus, that's an office, the library is just past it, down here’s the basement…”

They take the stairs to his father’s lab and find Monty bent over a fleet of cauldrons. His hair gets wild like James’s when he’s been standing in the fumes for too long, and he looks over his shoulder at James and the cat with fogged up glasses. He wipes them on his sweater and replaces them, then smiles.

“Look who it is!” His brow furrowed. “Would it be inappropriate to say look what the cat dragged in?”

“Probably, Dad.”

“Right. Well, I’m certainly glad to see you’ve put James to good use.”

“Hold on, now-”

“Would you like to see what I’m working on? Come, take a look.” He beckons them over and James can feel the cat’s claws digging into his arm a bit.

“Alright, I’m going, Merlin.”

He places the cat on the work bench between stray ingredients and open volumes. The cat creeps towards the bubbling cauldrons and peers in.

“I’ve found one that aligns well with some of the stuff in that book you gave me for Christmas, James.” He gestures to a thick blue book open to some inscrutable patterns. “There’s a section of star alignments at the beginning of the new year that make for particularly effective Felix Felices. We’ll see how it turns out.”

James expects the cat to be inspecting the cauldrons but instead it’s looking at the book Monty’s using. Then it looks to James, who smiles back. It’s the same star book the cat had dropped on his head a few months ago. James had asked Madame Pince with a great excess of manners for a catalogue to order a copy of the book from, which she had handed over with suspicion. As he predicted, Monty had been thrilled with it and apparently put it to use right away.

James just shrugs at the cat.

“What can I say, you give good gifts,” he tells it.

The cat shakes its head and returns its attention to where Monty is chopping up ginger root.

“I’ll come back for you later, if that’s alright?”

The cat flicks its tail in response, and James heads back upstairs.

He helps his mum with lunch and then takes the brooms out with Sirius, though it’s much too cold to stay in the air for long. By the time he makes his way back down to the basement, it’s early evening.

“James!” Monty yells. “This cat’s a genius!”

“What?”

The cauldrons are letting off enormous billows of steam that waft out the cracked windows near the ceiling. Inside it, James can make out the figure of his father with his hip propped against a counter stirring counterclockwise. Next to him, the cat is using its paw to flip through pages of the book.

“I’d ask if you taught it potions when you were at Hogwarts, but frankly it’s better than you so I don’t think that’s the case.”

“Hey, I’m perfectly fine at potions,” James says and crosses his arms.

The cat stops flipping and turns its head to see the words on the page more clearly. Then it sets a paw halfway down and looks at Monty. Monty leans over and reads what the cat is indicating.

“Ah, yes, that would work. Thanks much.”

James has to take a moment to close his eyes and open them again. When he does and still sees his father stirring the cauldron while the cat nudges a vile of salamander slime towards him, he has to conclude that the odd scene before him is real.

“Well. Um. Mum sent me down here to remind you it’s dinner in an hour. So.”

“Wonderful, thanks James. We’ll be up by then.”

“Alright then." James takes the dismissal and slowly ascends the stairs to the sitting room where he finds Remus reading and Sirius writing a letter.

“What are they doing?” Sirius asks.

“Brewing Felix Felices,” James says as he slumps down on the sofa opposite them.

“What?” Sirius puts his quill down.

“They’re brewing Felix-”

“No, I heard you. I meant ‘What’ more like ‘The cat is brewing Felix Felices?’”

“Yes.”

“The cat can brew potions.”

“Yes.”

A moment’s pause.

“Fuck, okay.”

Sirius shakes his head and gets back to his letter. Remus looks at James thoughtfully.

Monty appears at dinner with the cat by his side and is happy to tell them all about the different star alignments that await them in the next few weeks. James helps the cat to sit on the windowsill by the table so it can be a part of the conversation, and it feels right, seeing the cat’s ear twitch or its head cock in response to what’s being discussed. He can read its expressions so easily now that it’s like the two of them share a private joke when it drops its chin in distaste at something Sirius says. James tries to school his expression as he goes back to picking at his rice.

After they clean up, Monty suggests he teach them how to play poker. Remus’s head perks up at another chance to win money off someone and James and Sirius have more than one competitive bone between them and agree easily.

They’re in the middle of their third round, Sirius having somehow won the first two despite James’s suspicions that he doesn’t actually know what he’s doing when he notices that the cat has shifted positions to sit on the sofa behind Sirius.

“Alright,” Sirius says, “Five sickles.”

“I’ll call,” Remus says.

“Same.”

Monty, acting as their dealer, flips another card face up on the table.

“I’ll raise another three sickles,” Sirius says with a smirk.

James squints at his hand then sees the cat’s tail flip lazily. He looks up and notices a subtle shake of the cat’s head.

“I’ll call,” James says.

Remus is looking between him and the cat.

“Yeah. Actually, I’ll call and raise another two sickles.”

Sirius looks a bit nervous where James and Remus stare back waiting for his move.

“Fine, I fold,” Sirius huffs, throwing his cards on the table.

“Yes!” James turns his own cards over to reveal the absolute lack of matches. Remus wins with a measly pair and scoops the coins towards himself.

“What was that?” Sirius points at the table. “You had fucking nothing! Where did that come from?”

“Dunno what you mean, Pads,” Remus says, sorting his coins into neat stacks. “Prongs and I are natural hustlers.”

Sirius groans and slumps back on the sofa, eyes locking onto the cat who’s taken to demurely licking a paw. He sits right back up.

“Is the cat helping you cheat?”

“Sirius!” James slaps a hand over his heart. “How could you even suggest such a thing?”

“Don’t take it too harshly, James,” Remus says with a consoling pat to his shoulder. “We’ve always known him to be a poor loser.”

“No, I swear it was looking at my cards! It knows how to play poker too?”

“Well now, that’s just ridiculous. A cat playing poker? Honestly, listen to yourself, Pads. We ought to have you committed to St. Mungo’s.”

James nods sagely.

“It’s that old Black family madness. Finally showing through.”

“What a shame.”

“A waste of brilliant mind.”

It does not escape James that beyond Monty’s laughter and Sirius’s wild accusations, the cat’s nose scrunches like it might be laughing too.

He carries it up to bed after they finish playing and Sirius is bickering with Remus about whether or not he counts as a sugar baby if Remus has taken all his money from him in unmonitored gambling.

The cat lays down in its nest of blankets on one side of the bed, and James takes the other side. He tells it goodnight and turns out the lamp.

The next day, Effie removes its stitches.

It’s a long process for the sheer number of them and how careful she’s being after Remus shows her where to cut and how to drag them out without catching on the skin. The dittany has helped close all the wounds fully, so now there’s nothing left but an array of angry pink lines across the cat’s body.

James chooses to use the time to make tea. Honestly, he doesn’t want to watch the process, but he won’t leave the cat alone so he shuffles around the kettle while Effie sits with the cat at the kitchen table. He hears her tell it that it’s a very good patient and smiles a bit to himself.

The evening is spent packing up their trunks so they can catch the Hogwarts Express tomorrow bright and early. Remus, of course, is already packed and takes some satisfaction out of sitting on his closed trunk and pointing out items Sirius has missed. James works his way around his own room and talks with the cat in the interim.

“You know you’re welcome to stay here,” he says.

The cat is sitting by the window again but looks over when he speaks.

“Mum and Dad would be happy to have you. They already like you plenty.” He shoves a pair of shoes into the trunk and runs a hand through his hair. It all fit on the way home so technically it all has to fit on the way back, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

“I just don’t want you to go back to wherever you came from. It’s not good for you,” he says, as if it’s not obvious. He glances over at the cat to see if it’s listening but finds it looking at a pink scar on its leg. I brushes its face against the fur and tries again when it’s not satisfied. It takes James a moment to realize what it’s doing, but he gets it when the cat looks at its own reflection cast by the lamplight against the dark window.

“Oh, hey,” he says as he makes his way over to sit by the cat. “Don’t worry about that, really. They’ll fade over time, just like the others. And then you’ll have new fur to cover them.”

He strokes a finger down its leg, and it watches his hand as he uses the fur to hide the new scar.

“Besides, you’d look just as lovely with them anyway.”

The cat huffs at his obvious sentimentality, but he can’t really help it. It’s always been a fearsome creature and the scars make little difference.

When he’s finished packing, James turns off the lamp and sits with the cat on the window bench. They peer through the glass and James points out the January constellations that he recognizes from their book. The cat listens until its eyes droop and he leaves it to its slumber.

*

It’s past midnight when Remus sneaks out of bed. He has to untangle Sirius’s arms from around his waist and replace his absence with a well positioned pillow so that he doesn’t come back to Sirius’s grumpy you-abandoned-me-in-the-middle-of-the-night look. He closes the door and makes his way down the stairs silently.

He’s been waiting for this opportunity for the past few days, and he won’t get it again. When he’d heard James’s door with its minuscule creak in the hinges, he’d waited five minutes then followed.

Now, just outside the kitchen, he can hear the careful rummaging of a person slowing their movements to hide their presence. He pushes open the door and allows his eyes to adjust to the dark. A slim figure stands faced away from him. Remus is almost amused as he folds his arms and props himself against the doorway.

“Chicken broth not doing it for you, Regulus?” he says quietly.

Regulus’s silhouette stiffens, and Remus can see him actively schooling his muscles into unlocking and assuming an unbothered posture before he turns around and leans against the counter. He appraises Remus like a dueling opponent before he speaks.

“Generous as it was, if I have to eat it one more time I won’t be able to keep it down.”

He takes a biscuit out of the tin and bites it cleanly in two. He’s got a kind of soft, ashy way of speaking that suits the late hour and shadowed room. They regard each other in the dark and Remus is very aware of their respective animal forms at that moment, two very obvious predators sizing the other up.

“How did you know it was me?” Regulus finally asks.

“I don’t feel the need to divulge that.”

“Ah, so it’s a werewolf thing then,” Regulus says with a sage nod.

The words have their intended effect. Remus’s entire body tenses at the word on someone else’s tongue. He starts running through contingencies and what Regulus could possibly extract from him with this knowledge. It’s not ideal; Regulus is clever and devious and more than capable of ruining Remus’s life should he wish to.

“Is it heightened senses?” Regulus speculates. “Hearing? No, it must be scent. That would do it.”

And of course he’s right. It had taken Remus a few hours to figure out why the cat seemed so familiar, but in the end there had just been too much blood. The similarity to the taste and smell of Padfoot’s blood was undeniable. The rest of it, Remus hadn’t quite worked out, but that was why he was here tonight.

If he could get through it without being outed as a werewolf as soon as term began.

But if Regulus wants a wolf, then he’d get one. He lets a bit of it slip through and infect his voice when he growls, “Are you planning on blackmailing me?”

To Regulus’s credit, he doesn’t flinch or withdraw, just goes back for another biscuit and meets Remus’s eyes.

“No, nothing so base. I just thought I’d be polite enough to inform you when you haven’t got the sort of informational advantage you seem to think you do.” Regulus chews through the biscuit and considers his next words. “I suppose this isn’t so much the confrontation you expected it to be as it is more of a mutual acknowledgement of discovered secrets.”

Regulus Black is kind of insufferable, only in part because he keeps turning out to be spot on.

“When did you find out?”

“Third year.” At Remus’s expression, Regulus just rolls his eyes. “It’s rather obvious if you look long enough. Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone.”

“And why is that?”

Regulus gives a careless shrug as he shakes the tin and goes digging for a specific kind of biscuit.

“Figured it would come in handy one day.”

“Like now?”

“Exactly.”

Remus doesn’t think that’s the whole truth but he can’t say anything before Regulus continues.

“And it worked out quite well, didn’t it? Now you and I have exchanged rather important secrets and you already have proof that I’ve kept yours so it should be easy for you to keep mine.”

He finishes with a weighty glance at Remus, and Remus knows exactly what he wants.

“You don’t want me to tell Sirius and James.”

“Well, you haven’t yet so I assume I’m not the only who has their reasons for keeping this from them.”

“They’ll find out eventually.”

“Then it shouldn’t concern you that they’ll never know.”

They’re back at a stalemate, looking each other in the eye, neither one willing to make the next move. Remus finds it a bit odd to argue with someone who effortlessly keeps up with his logic. It's a bit like arguing with Lily, and he might even enjoy it if it weren't his freedom and livelihood on the line.

But whether he likes it or not, Regulus has done a rather enormous thing in not sharing Remus’s secret. Remus doesn’t like the idea of owing that to Regulus sometime in the future.

“Alright,” he says finally. “It’s between us. For now.”

He won’t swear to never telling Sirius or James because he thinks there will come a time when they’ll have to know, and Remus doesn’t like keeping things from them, even if he is the most capable out of all the Marauders.

“Cheers.” Regulus gives a halfhearted toast with a biscuit in Remus’s direction.

“Are you just planning on bleeding the Potters dry of their biscuit stores, then?”

“Honestly, Lupin, yes,” Regulus sighs. “And I won’t be made to feel bad about it. I’ve already had a pretty shit holiday so I’m saying I deserve this and not thinking too hard about it.”

Regulus’s words hit Remus all at once, and he has to reevaluate the whole situation. He’d been so caught up in Regulus as a dangerous opponent, defending himself from his easy repartee and quick, precise words walking a line between bargain and threat, that he’d almost forgotten that Regulus was the cat that had shown up at their door not three days ago on the brink of death. Now that he looks, Regulus has let all the carefully held aggression slip out of his posture and he just looks tired. He can’t see the lines of scars under Regulus’s baggy clothes, but he’d seen them plenty when he’d assisted Effie, and his frame is bony enough that the clothes don’t even hang right. He doesn’t look much like a threat anymore, just a worn out, overwhelmed teenager trying to salvage some portion of his bleak Christmas holiday. And damn him cause Remus has felt like that too sometimes.

So he figures what the hell and walks the rest of the way into the kitchen.

“Well, you might as well share then,” and he levers himself up to sit on the counter. He holds his hand out for the biscuit tin.

It’s good to know that Regulus Black can be caught off guard because he looks between Remus’s hand and his face a few times before he passes it over. They munch in silence for a few minutes.

“Why haven’t you come down to get food before?”

Regulus shrugs.

“Couldn’t shift until the stitches were out. No idea how that’d translate between bodies but I doubt it’d be pretty.”

Remus grimaces at that image. They’re quiet for a few more minutes until Remus really can’t help himself.

“So you’re wearing James’s sweater.”

Regulus looks down at the cream colored cable knit like he’s just noticing. It’s much too big on him and certainly doesn’t match what seem to be a pair of black formal slacks.

“My shirt was in no salvageable condition so I had to borrow something. The indignities never cease,” Regulus says without inflection, but Remus thinks he can make out a slight blush on his cheeks.

“You sure have been spending a good deal of time with him this semester,” Remus says, affecting innocent curiosity.

Regulus shoots him a look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just an observation. You’d never really spoken before this year and between the cat and the Transfiguration lessons-”

“Practices.”

“-James in large, sudden doses can be… a lot.”

Regulus rolls his eyes.

“You don’t have to tell me. It took some getting used to.”

“But you are now?”

“Hmm?”

“Used to him?”

Regulus is looking at him oddly.

“I suppose…”

And Remus would really love to relay this conversation to James just to see his besotted expression and hear him say “He’s used to me? He said that?” like it’s some extravagant declaration of love. But for now he’ll just have to have his own fun. He can’t exactly walk back upstairs and throw out a casual “Just ran into Regulus in the kitchen. Oh by the way, you’re going to need to add biscuits to your grocery list.”

Merlin, wouldn’t that be funny though.

He knows James is going to barrel into second semester with every intention of winning Regulus over just as soon as possible, so he figures he better not fuck this up for them before it’s even started. James deserves someone, would be so good for someone, and Sirius deserves his brother back even if Remus isn’t completely sure what kind of a brother that is yet. From this scant ten minutes spent with Regulus that have vacillated wildly between outright threatening and subdued teasing, he can’t say he dislikes him. He actually finds his sharp edge and dry humor a bit refreshing.

So he’ll lay some groundwork instead.

“You know, James felt sort of terrible about that letter from-”

“Do not.”

Well. He tried.

“Yeah, you seemed real mad about it when you rode around in his arms the last two days.”

Regulus snatches the tin back.

“Why don’t I just go home and let my mother finish the fucking job,” he mutters.

And he’d kind of put together that it was Walburga after he’d figured out the cat was Regulus; the scars were too similar to what he’d seen on Sirius. But he’d thought they weren’t supposed to mention it. So that was a bit dark. But also funny as fuck and Remus can’t hold back the laugh. This wasn’t what he’d thought would happen when he’d decided to confront Regulus.

Then something occurs to him.

“You’re leaving tonight, aren’t you?”

Regulus stops chewing but then resumes.

“Have to. Haven’t got my stuff for the train tomorrow.”

“Does that mean you’re going back to Grimmauld?”

“No, I left a note for Kreacher. He’s meeting me with my trunk.”

At least he’d thought that far ahead, which begs the question what exactly did Regulus do that he’d known would get him punished so badly he might have to leave his house and why did he do it anyway?

Remus doesn’t think he has a chance in hell of getting a straight answer to that so he doesn’t ask.

Instead he says, “James will be disappointed,” because he’s nothing if not an instigator at heart.

Regulus breaks the biscuit in half and says, “He’ll live.”

So Remus goes for the big one.

“Sirius would like to see you before you go.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Regulus pushes off the counter and stuffs the lid back on.

“Why do you think that?” Remus asks, crossing his arms.

“Merlin, thought you were supposed to be the smart one, Lupin.”

“Do you think he’s still mad about that? Besides you were the one who wouldn’t leave with him when he asked-”

“Just-” Regulus cuts him off with one hand raised, “Don’t.”

He turns from the pantry and looks Remus in the eyes.

“I don’t care what you think you know about that night. I don’t care what he thinks he knows for that matter. It’s done. It is what it is, and he hasn’t got any right to walk around angry or moping or whatever the fuck he’s doing cause I just don’t care.”

Remus feels the instinctive protectiveness of Sirius rise to the surface, but he tamps it down. He knows a lie when he hears one. He knows truth too, and there’s a bit of both in there. Remus admittedly doesn’t know shit about the night Sirius left Grimmauld place aside from what he’s told them. But there are always two sides to a story, if not more.

So if Regulus can be cajoled into losing his cool a bit and admitting that he doesn’t think his brother has a right to feel the way he does, then maybe he doesn’t.

And if he says he doesn’t care, then maybe he does.

So he backs off. Losing battles, winning wars and all that.

“Alright.”

Regulus deflates a little when Remus doesn’t push the issue, and the liminal serenity of the night is restored.

“Guess I’ll... see you at school then,” he says a bit awkwardly.

“Be safe,” Remus replies.

Regulus just nods vaguely and leaves the kitchen. Remus doesn’t know where he means to go, if he’ll spend a few more hours in James’s room or if he’s headed out into the snow at that very moment, but he lets him go.

He makes himself tea and drinks it slowly, mulling over everything Regulus said and all he knows now that he’s confirmed the cat’s identity. There’s a whole slurry of moments and people caught up in Regulus’s secrets: Sirius, his departure, the Black family, the Transfiguration, the injuries, James, James, James. There are pieces missing too, mostly having to do with his motives, but there’s time for that later.

Remus finishes his tea and crawls back into the warm bed with Sirius.

*

When they wake on Saturday morning, the cat is nowhere to be found.

END OF PART I

Chapter Text

PART II

He’s walking through a forest, close to the ground, soft paws making no sound on soft moss. The trees stretch up endlessly above him and diffuse the sunlight into pointed, timeless shafts breaking through the foliage. The air is cool and damp against his nose.

To his left he sees movement. The rolling prowl of a wolf slips between trees. Beside it, a dog follows, a smaller, quicker recreation of the same gait. They ignore him and wind their way together between puddles of sun and tree trunks and disappear again.

He passes over a hill and a ridge rises to his right. At the top of the ridge stands a lone hearth. A peaceful fire glows inside.

He makes his way over to the hearth and sits before it. The fire leaps to a rhythm, like a heartbeat. The heart of the forest, so very alive around him-

“Reg!”

Regulus jolts awake in his seat, head knocking into the window he’d been leaning against. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep and the bench is doing his back no favors. He looks to his left and sees Dorcas, Barty, and Evan frozen in the doorway of his train compartment waiting for him to show some sign of life.

“Hi.”

They don’t move.

“Happy New Year?”

That seems to break the spell.

Dorcas shoves past Evan and Barty to sit next to Regulus on his bench. She’s looking him over like she might find some account of how his break had gone, and she might if she looks closely enough. Barty and Evan sit close together on the opposite seat and try not to look like they’re leaning forward. They all stare at each other for a minute.

“So?” Evan finally says with no small amount of caution.

Regulus leans back in his seat and lets out a long, slow breath.

“It worked.”

“It worked?”

“Yeah,” Regulus nods. “It worked.”

Barty shoots a hand out to grab his left wrist and yank it towards him. Regulus tries his best to disguise his flinch as a readjustment of his posture. Barty stuffs the sleeve of his robes that he’s already changed into up to his elbow and gapes at the unmarred white skin of his forearm. Then he cackles.

“Look at that! Fucking pristine, I could lick it.”

“Please don’t.”

Barty hauls his arm up to his face and licks it.

“I said-” Regulus yanks his arm back and wipes it against his robes.

“Merlin, I can’t believe it,” Dorcas says wilting against the bench. “You maniacs actually did that.”

“We prefer the term ‘unconventional genius,’ Cas,” Barty says crossing his arms. Evan drops his head to his shoulder in a gesture of relief but he can’t quite wipe the smile off his face.

“Fuck, I’m so happy for you Reg. Six more months of honorary cult status!”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Regulus props his elbow on the windowsill and rests his head.

“We’ll toast to it later,” Dorcas says perfunctorily. “In the meantime, I’m more concerned about the fact that you look like you slept in the train station. How long have you even been here, Reg?”

Leave it to Dorcas to sniff out the current issue. Regulus had indeed spent a more than acceptable time in King’s Cross. He’d met Kreacher at Bedford Square Garden at 3 in the morning to accept his trunk that Kreacher had packed for him. He’d assured Kreacher that he was much better, even going so far as to roll up his (James’s) sweater and show him one of the tender pink scars that had closed cleanly thanks to Euphemia Potter’s expert ministrations. Kreacher hadn’t seemed quite as reassured but he wished Regulus the best and apparated away with a crack before his absence was noticed at Grimmauld Place.

The trek to King’s Cross was a bit surreal. The city was as near to silent as it got, and he watched how his breath plumed and dispersed in front of him. He knew it was dangerous—a boy of his looks and his age, making no effort to disguise his presence as he walked alone through the heart of London at night—but it didn’t feel that way.

It felt freeing.

He’d spent his break locked in a house that was more of a temperamental mousetrap, then in another house that was not and wouldn’t ever be his own, even if it presented all the comforts and amenities he could possibly want and never have. If that had felt like jumping from one sinking ship to another, this felt like finally plunging into water, just as shocking and cold and unsustainable but with the sort of giddy nihilism of Well, it can’t possibly get worse.

He’d dragged his trunk into King’s Cross and stuffed it under a bench. Then he’d turned into the cat and curled up on top of it for a few hours until he heard the scream of steel breaks and the huff of a steam engine. The Hogwarts Express arrived at Platform 9¾ about two hours before it’s designated departure time. Regulus had been too exhausted at that point to consider if there was anyone around to think it strange that a disheveled teenager had been waiting before dawn for the train, and he climbed aboard. He’d changed into his robes almost immediately, if only for a new set of clothes to wear, and fallen asleep again in a compartment. The steady rise of noise from families arriving and departing didn’t disturb him once.

Dorcas, however, did not need to know all of this, so Regulus says, “A couple hours,” and leaves it at that.

She looks like she doesn’t believe him, but then Evan asks if he’ll tell them how the Death Eater meeting went and the topic shifts.

Regulus gives a very spliced recount of his holiday. He tells them about the stodgy Christmas with his cousins, and Evan groans in sympathy, saying that he and Pandora had to listen to their grandmother recite a truly creative litany of slurs before they could slip away to go smoke on the roof. He tells them about the meeting and even his suspicions that the Death Eaters plan to reveal themselves soon before he gets to his failed indoctrination. Barty seems especially pleased to hear how pissed Bellatrix had been at the news, and Regulus doesn’t mention her probing questions at the end. He also doesn’t mention those few adrenaline-filled minutes when he’d nearly lost his mind trying to replicate the Horcrux, which still pulses faintly against his chest on its chain.

He makes the mistake of saying that Walburga hadn’t been pleased with his interference with her plans, and his friends’ faces drop.

“She threw a fit, did she?” Barty asks darkly.

“Yeah, kind of,” Regulus admits. “I had to leave for the rest of break.”

“Where did you go?” Dorcas asks immediately.

And damn them for their concern. This isn’t going to go over well.

Regulus drags a hand down his face.

“I went- I went to the Potters,” he sighs.

Another beat of silence.

“Well, fuck me,” Barty says contemplatively.

“So- wait, hold on, so you just showed up at Potter Manor and James and Sirius were both fine with it?” Evan asks with a baffled expression. “You were fine with it?”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice, now did I?” Regulus drops his hands. “And they didn’t quite… know I was there.”

“I don’t get it. Did you hide in their fucking attic?” Dorcas asks. “Is this like one of those fucked up Victorian romances?”

“No, there were no attics involved, I just-” Regulus shuts his eyes tight. “Look, it’s complicated and I’m not explaining it, but it worked, and that’s all that matters. I was there, and they didn’t know, and it’s fine. Can we please just leave it at that?”

His friends are looking at him like Mmhm, sure but what else is he supposed to do? If a few minor details don’t make sense between his refusal to lie to them more than he has to and his heavy pile of secrets, then so be it.

He’s grasping at straws to change the subject so he says, “Dorcas, how was Ireland?” and they listen to her launch into a tale about Marlene and Mary MacDonald and a field of sheep that turned out to be not a field so much as it was a marsh. The whistle blows and the train starts moving and they fall into their usual pattern of dramatic stories and teasing remarks and the occasional crude comment. When the trolley comes by, Evan buys them all bottles of pumpkin juice and calls for a toast.

“To our darling Reggie, who has tragically failed to join a terrorist cult for another miserable six months,” he says under a raised bottle.

“To Reggie!” Dorcas and Barty echo.

“Worst cult member in Britain,” Barty adds. “Sorry, mate, but you’ve got nothing on those freaks over in the States. They’re leagues ahead of us in the cult game.”

“Shame. I’ll work on it,” Regulus says dryly.

At some point, Pandora stops by and gives Regulus a dazzling smile when she hears the good news. She sits next to Evan and arranges her cloud of platinum hair over one shoulder.

“So how about you, Dora, blow anything up over holiday?” Barty asks leaning over Evan. He’s always ready to hear about Pandora’s latest experiment, successes and failures in equal measure.

“I don’t know why you would imply that,” she says primly. “On an unrelated note we no longer have a greenhouse.”

“Not the greenhouse,” Evan groans.

It passes the time quickly, and Regulus thinks if he couldn’t have a good holiday he at least gets a nice train ride.

The first thing Regulus does when he reaches their dorm is extract a heavily warded puzzle box from his trunk. It’s a Black family heirloom, another one keyed to their blood like his mother’s jewelry box, but this one also has a latching mechanism that depends on sliding panels of dark, polished wood in a certain combination to unlock it. The wood is spelled against any kind of destruction, be it breaking or burning or decay over time, and Regulus is fairly certain not even a member of the Black family could figure out the puzzle if they hadn’t been taught. He and Sirius used to play with it as kids and Regulus can work the panels with his eyes closed.

When he has it open, he reaches up to unclasp the chain around his neck and draws the rings out from is shirt. He can breathe easier the moment the Horcrux isn’t resting against his skin, even more so when he drops it in the box and shuts it. The ring’s pulsing flairs in the box as if it’s displeased to have been separated from its host like a parasite, but Regulus thinks he’s a bit overdue to piss off the ugly thing for all the grief it’s caused him. He piles on his own slew of suppression and protection and warning charms before wrapping the whole box in an old sweater and stuffing it in the bottom of his trunk.

He lets out one hysterical laugh when he thinks about what kinds of illicit items other Hogwarts students probably shove to the depths of their trunks with the same air of frantic secrecy.

The remaining ring goes back around his neck.

The return banquet isn’t as grandiose as the one in September, but it’s plenty celebration to kick off the start of the term. Regulus sits in his usual spot with his friends and eats from the dishes closest to him. The lacerations healed relatively well, but something about the healing process taking place on the cat’s body has made the fresh scars pull painfully when he stretches them in any way. There’s a potion he can brew for it when he finds the time.

And through the whole meal he does a rather admirable job of not looking at the Gryffindor table.

His time with the Potters was a bit of a fever dream if he’s being honest. He doesn’t remember anything more than flashes between Kreacher shaking him awake in the sitting room of Grimmauld at some ungodly hour of the morning and opening his eyes more than a day later to an unfamiliar but comfortable room. He’d somehow made it outside, if it was on two feet or hands and knees he doesn’t know. He’d somehow apparated to the area he knew Potter Manor to be, and he’d somehow transformed into the cat and searched out the house through scent alone. Pain to the cat was not necessarily more manageable, but there was something about animals that forefronted the need to survive and provided a kind of necessary tunnel vision; the pain was an undeniable, screaming presence pulling against his every move, and he kept going anyway because it was either that or die.

He’d run his odds of getting help from every possible place he could think of before he’d settled on Potter Manor: the Rosiers would be all too happy to hand him back to his parents, the Crouches wouldn’t even let him in the door and Barty would likely pay for it, there was no way he was roping Pandora into this, and Dorcas was out of town. In the end, his dizzy brain had only thought of his brother and even taken some comfort in the fact that they’d ended up in pretty much the same state, wasn’t that funny. So he did like he’d done for those early years of his life, the ones colored by the shining idolization of his older brother, and followed in his footsteps. Sort of literally.

He remembers snow and cold and the deep burning that seemed to drain his energy and slow his heart and that’s about it.

Until he woke up in James Potter’s bedroom.

That alone had felt like a decadence far beyond what Regulus would ever stumble into in this life, so he’d briefly considered that he’d died and manifested himself as some wish-fulfilling ghost cat. But then his whole small body had been wracked with the onslaught of every individual lash his mother had carved into him held together by thread and he was suddenly much more sure this was real.

The days that followed didn’t really help to convince him of that. He’d slept excessively without disruption. Euphemia Potter had taken every precaution and spoken to him kindly when healing his wounds. James had carried him around, held close in his arms and Regulus can’t even think about that now unless he’s willing to let his face turn a searing shade of red. He’d brewed Felix Felices with Fleamont Potter and cheated his brother out of a good deal of money in some muggle card game. It was like walking through some vision of Sirius’s before he’d escaped, testing out all the comforts of the Potter family and knowing it was just a temporary taste of the kind of life that could produce the kind of person that James Potter is.

Of course it had ended, but not before a fascinating conversation with Remus Lupin. Regulus has decided that he rather likes Lupin, taste in men not considered. He’s got the kind of tactical mind that speaks to Regulus’s and he isn’t afraid to launch a few barbs. He feels confident in knowing that his secret is safe for the present.

All in all, it was nice. If you overlook the fact that he was recovering from his mother beating him to unconsciousness and leaving him for dead and that the Potters had no idea he had infiltrated their home, it was even sort of like a vacation.

And Regulus has come to terms with the fact that it was a good ending for him and James, the best they could expect.

While he understands his actions, James had still reneged on a promise and likely doesn’t even want to see him again after the dramatics in front of his friends. Their deal is over; Regulus has mastered transfiguration, James has learned enough occlumency to make his own progress if he wants, they don’t owe each other anything more. Besides, Regulus is still an honorary Death Eater and now the reluctant owner of a Horcrux belonging to the most powerful dark wizard in recent history with the intention of obtaining more. So it’s not like his life is going to get less complicated in the next few months. James is really better off with some distance.

They’ve reached a natural culmination point. Regulus got to play house for a few days and live out his little fantasy and now they can go back to ignoring each other like none of it ever happened.

But of course it did happen, and Regulus feels it like a dense ball of iron dropped into his ribcage. He’ll miss James’s laugh and his patience, his willing and easy smile, the way he’s both energetic and unfailingly steady. He’ll miss spending quiet hours with him working through problems, trading ideas and watching him run his hands through his stupid hair.

Regulus has gotten his time, more than he’d ever thought he would or even knew he wanted, and he can find a way to content himself with that. He has to.

He hopes James can do the same.

*

Regulus Black, James has decided, is a slippery bastard who has conveniently developed some previously unheard-of abilities to evade confrontations of the please-hear-me-out-I’m-really-sorry-plus-I-have-a-debilitating-crush-on-you variety.

It’s two weeks into term and James has not been able to pin that boy down even once.

Metaphorically speaking.

Actually, literally speaking too, now that that’s something James is actively looking to pursue.

James knows when he’s being avoided. He’s been avoided before, thank you very much. And this is definitely avoiding.

At first it may have just been coincidence. Busy train, busy Great Hall, busy first few days of classes. Fine. They’re all busy. But when James spots Regulus walking alone down a corridor and rushes to catch up with him only to find him somehow not there when he rounds the corner? That’s called avoiding, and James doesn’t appreciate it.

Because if Regulus thinks he’s done with James…

Well, then he’s sorely mistaken.

James had spent a good portion of the train ride planning out how to approach Regulus this semester. It had done wonders to take his mind off the disappearance of the cat that morning, and he’d had all his friends there to help him brainstorm.

Peter had found the three of them in their compartment and dropped down on a bench next to James with loud complaints about his cousins.

“They’re five now, James, which means not only are they of an age where they can’t be expected to behave like humans but they’re just smart enough to know it too. I found a pile of root vegetables in my bed one evening for no purpose. How is that even amusing?” he’d asked with a flail of his hands. The problem was he had poorly chosen his audience, as the rest of the Marauders were more than willing to provide copious reasons why this was, in fact, very funny.

When he’d exhausted himself with tales of his survival, James, Sirius, and Remus caught him up on all he’d missed at the Potters. This included rave reviews of muggle sledding and movies with disco as a world-saving plot device, Effie’s triumphant duel against Monty (which received the appropriate reverence from Peter), and the Order of the Phoenix. Peter had seemed equal parts invested in the idea of the Order and nervous.

“Well, at least we have a name for it now. Felt bloody stupid calling it the Movement,” he said with exaggerated mystery. “How involved do you think it is, though? We haven’t seen anything big in the papers for quite some time now.”

“I mean my parents are a part of it,” James responded. “And it’s led by Dumbledore, so I can’t imagine it’s just there to clean up messes and such. They mean to win a war and they’re going to,” he said with a shrug. Sirius nodded his head across from him.

“Okay, well it’s not a war quite yet,” Peter said with a nervous laugh. “No need to get ahead of ourselves.”

“It’s coming whether we like it or not, Pete,” Sirius said a bit gruffly. “The longer we sit around denying it, the worse shape we’ll be in when it hits.”

Peter didn’t seem comforted. Of the four of them, he’d had a harder time coming to terms with the rise of the Death Eaters. He hadn’t jumped into James and Sirius’s plans to join the war and tried to avoid the topic when it did come up. James thought it had to do with his family. They come from a long line of purebloods and seeing their blood status turned into a weapon of hate had been jarring and confusing. Plus his older sister had moved out a few years ago, and James knew the separation causes some concerns for his parents.

There was no need to worry him unnecessarily though. Like he said, the war still sat like a storm on the horizon, there but far off.

Instead, James directed conversation to more pressing matters like his, as Remus put it so eloquently, “brainless, ill-fated, unforgivably belated” realization of his crush on Regulus.

“Finally figured it out, did you,” Peter had said with no small amount of self-satisfaction.

“Yeah, alright, can we skip past the part where you three pat each other on the back for seeing this before me and get to the part where you help me figure out how I’m going to mend a relationship and seduce the most impervious boy on this side of the Atlantic?”

“Don’t use that word,” Sirius cut in. “Don’t say seduce. There will be no seduction.”

“Fuck, Pads, what would you rather me say? Woo?”

Sirius wrinkled his nose.

“No.”

“Court?”

“Ew.”

“Romance?”

“Um…”

“Great! Operation How to Romance Regulus Black. Give me ideas. Sirius, go.”

“I feel like as someone who shares a surname with the titular individual, I should be exempt from all participation.”

“Booo. Remus, go.”

Remus sighed and sat up straighter.

“Well, first you’re going to have to draft out a pretty moving apology. Like it or not, mate, you did break a promise and there’s no chance he takes that lightly. I feel like we all saw that.”

“Okay, good stuff. Award-winning apology in the works. Peter, go.”

“Um. Maybe make sure it’s private? None of the grand gestures or anything. You might not leave alive.”

“I’ve told you, Regulus isn’t nearly as scary as you think. Like yeah, he’s scary, but probably not public-murder levels of scary.”

“Probably?” Peter said.

“No, you’re right,” Sirius added. “He’s much more likely to poison you, the little creep.”

“See, Sirius, this is why I need your valuable input. Now I know to look out for poison.”

“Alright, fine,” Sirius huffed. “But he never finds out I told you all this and I’m only doing it because there is a very real risk I lose my best mate if you’re not careful. Then Effie and Monty will run away with Remus and I’ll have to live in Pete’s basement.”

“Too right, Pads,” Remus said with what was supposed to be a conciliatory pat to his arm.

Sirius did not look consoled, but he proceeded to give James heaps of advice about navigating the perilous straights that are Regulus Black and what sliver of a good side he had to get back on. The overwhelming message was don’t do it all at once. The apology would come first, perhaps multiple times, with reasons to support his actions but only if Regulus wanted to hear them. Then came the time to let him think, which James was proud to say he had predicted. Then, maybe, possibly, James could start to imply that he had some not strictly platonic feelings for him. Sirius refused to offer any insight beyond that.

“I told you, James, I’ve no idea if he even thinks of people like that. He’s a cold bastard at the best of times, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he had no interest in romantic relationships at all. And if he does, I will not be a part of him entering into one, especially not with my best friend, especially not when I’d have to hear about it constantly.”

“He wouldn’t talk about it constantly,” James said, amused.

“I meant you.”

“Oh. I wouldn’t talk about it constantly.”

“Literally no one believes that, Prongs.”       

But James can’t not talk about it constantly if there isn’t anything to not talk about constantly. And he can’t even find the boy to get the thing that he wouldn’t talk about constantly cause either the laws of probability have changed drastically in the last two weeks or Regulus is making himself very difficult to find.

It’s not like he doesn’t see him. Regulus is there at meals or in the halls just as enigmatic and alluring as always, but where he would meet James’s eye before and James would smile at him then go back to what he was doing with his stomach in gooey knots that he’s only recently come to understand, now he avoids eye contact like he’s never met James in his life.

James is seconds away from lighting himself on fire just to see if Regulus would look at him then.

He’s taken to carrying around the map and tracking him like a damn stalker, but he’s always in the Slytherin common room, or he’s with his intimidating friends, or James sees him alone at the Astronomy Tower and throws the map down on his bed to sprint up a disrespectful number of stairs only to find that he’s not there when he arrives.

He stands there out of breath with a magnificent view and no one to share it with, not even a cat. He doesn’t let himself think about that too much.

James is currently in the common room engaging in a Monday night of something dangerously close to wallowing. It’s not quite wallowing, not yet. There’s too much drive and too many plans to corner Regulus in the works for it to qualify as wallowing, but the definitive note of desperation makes it a near thing. It must be obvious too because Marlene and Lily come to join him on the sofa, squeezing in on either side of him so he’s sandwiched between their scrutiny.

“What’s the face for, Potter?” Marlene squints at him.

“The face is for deep thought and complex machinations.”

“Is that why you look like you’re on the verge of having a stroke?” Lily asks.

“Oi.” He gives her a pointed look. “I’m perfectly capable of deep thought.”

“When the stars are right, I’ve heard,” Marlene says offhandedly.

James laughs at that. Stars indeed. If only she knew.

“Really, though, you’re worrying the first years, James. They’re not used to seeing you think this hard and it’s scaring them. What’s got you all twisted up?”

James is about due for some new ideas so he figures what the hell. Marlene and Lily are smart.

“How do you get someone who’s been avoiding you alone long enough to make them listen to what you have to say?”

Lily looks at him sideways, and yeah, she might have reason more than most to question him about that. And she’d probably be pretty close to the mark.

Marlene says, “I dunno, have you tried just running into them?”

“Avoiding, remember? They’re very good at it too.”

“Do you really have to track them down like this, James?” Lily asks. “Can’t you let them come to you?”

“I hear what you’re saying, Lily, I really do. But this person isn’t going to come around, and I really do need them to hear me out.”

Lily looks at him suspiciously.

“Is this another crush of yours? Do I have to pull out the List again?”

James leans back against Marlene in an effort to keep Lily and her cursed List of his failings away from him.

“No, no need for the List. That is firmly in my past.”

“Too bad, you had excellent cardio when the List was relevant,” Marlene mutters.

“But it’s not about a crush, then?” Lily prods.

“It… might be. A little. But not entirely!” James rushes to clarify when Lily looks gratified. “I need to apologize, and that’s the more urgent part. So apology first and then- well, who knows honestly. But I can’t do any of that if I can’t even get them alone for a minute.”

“Mate, you’d think you would have just memorized their schedule or something fourteen-year-olds do when they’re mad about someone. Isn’t that about your level?” Marlene says.

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” James says contemplatively. A schedule would definitely be helpful. He wouldn’t be able to get Regulus alone between classes in the middle of the day but maybe… a Quidditch schedule? If he could find him after practice there would be plenty of opportunity. So now all he needs to know is when Slytherin practices.

James sits up abruptly.

“You’re a gift, Marlene.”

“Naturally.”

“Do you know where Dorcas is?”

“Who?”

James’s brow furrows.

“Dorcas.”

Marlene leans forward and deliberately says, “Who?”

Lily sighs on his other side and says, “She’s been doing this all holiday.”

It finally clicks for James and he rolls his eyes but also can’t help his smile.

“Apologies, do you know where your girlfriend is?”

“Ah, Dorcas Meadowes my girlfriend. Yes, I believe she’s getting a head start on Transfiguration in the library.”

“Fantastic.” James jumps up from the sofa and leaves the girls with a “Have a lovely evening!” before he’s out the portrait hole and down the staircase.

He finds Dorcas in a corner of the library twisting a lock of hair between her fingers as she scrutinizes a page of text.

James makes no effort to disguise his approach.

“Dorcas!”

She jumps a bit and turns in his direction.

“James? What can I do for you?”

He doesn’t bother to pull out the chair across from her and instead just leans his hands on the table. He does, however, remember to ask after her holiday. He was raised right after all.

She doesn’t buy it.

“It was fun, thanks. Do you want to tell me why you’re really here?”

“Alright, yeah. When does Slytherin practice next?”

“Um.” She toys with her quill. “Tomorrow evening.”

“What time?”

“Why, are you going to spy on us?”

James doesn’t say that he thinks they’d benefit more from spying on Gryffindor but does say, “No, I just need to talk to Regulus.”

Her eyebrows go up at that.

“Ah. Well, I’m not sure he feels the same.”

“Please, Dorcas. I know he’s mad at me and rightfully so, but don’t you think he deserves a chance to hear an apology? He doesn’t have to forgive me, but someone ought to tell him that they know they did him wrong and that they’re sorry for it.”

Dorcas looks like she’s wavering, so James leans in a bit more and goes on.

“Listen, I really care about him. And I know he’s avoiding me and that’s fine,”—it’s not—“but he shouldn’t have to go around thinking that I meant to hurt him. It was a mistake and I didn’t mean for him to suffer from it. I just want to tell him that.”

He doesn’t really have a read on how much Dorcas knows about his interactions with Regulus last semester or if she ever even heard about the letter from Monty, but she obviously noticed something has gone bad between them.

Finally she sighs.

“We’re on the pitch at 5 tomorrow. Ends at 6:30.”

James is about to thank her and leave when she cuts him off.

“But,” she says with a reluctant air. “He’s been staying late to fly on his own. Says he wants to practice more, not that he needs it. He’s been doing it a lot lately.”

“Thank you, Dorcas. Really.”

“I’m only telling you because you’re right. It’d be good for him to hear an apology he deserves. So it’d better be fucking incredible, got it?”

She’s glaring at him with a similar intensity to when he faced her across a catwalk in their duel and James finds himself nodding fervently.

“Yes. Absolutely. It’ll knock his socks off, promise.”

“Fine. Now get out of here. Let me study this horrid subject in peace.”

“Godspeed, Dorcas. It doesn’t stand a chance against you.”

“Why can I still hear you, James?”

“Right, sorry.”

James spends the entire next day counting down the hours until he can reasonably leave for the Quidditch pitch. They seem to be moving slower than normal.

Sirius drags him to dinner even though he’d protested that he needed to get to the pitch. Sirius had responded that there was no way he was letting James start skipping meals for his brother. By the time he finishes (more like by the time Sirius lets him up from the table like he’s a little kid who wants to get back to playing with his toys), he’s worried he’s missed Regulus completely.

He wades through the worn tracks in the snow leading down to the pitch and scans the sky above the stadium for a lone figure drawing loops in the night, but he sees nothing. It’s dark at this hour and cold enough to make James wish he’d worn more than just his sweater but he follows the tracks diligently.

He first makes his way into the middle of the pitch, which has been cleared of snow, to gaze above him for signs of Regulus to no avail. Then he heads for the locker rooms in the event that Regulus might still be showering.

The inside is warm and there’s at least an effort being made to light the space with the wall sconces, but it’s not really meant to be used at night. James rubs feeling back into his hands and listens for water from the showers. Nothing.

He’s about to give up and go complain to Sirius that he made him miss this one really good chance at catching Regulus alone when he hears the sound of a wooden locker door opening.

His heart jumps a little. It has to be him. He’s going to finally get to see Regulus face to face with nowhere for him to disappear to for the first time in… Merlin, more than a month. It’s been far too long since he’s seen that unimpressed gaze up close.

He rounds the last row of lockers with his name already on his lips when he stops dead in his tracks.

At first, it’s because of all the skin on display, long white planes of it bared to James where Regulus has his back turned to him as he rummages for a clean sweater in his locker. His hair is still wet from the shower and glittering drops of water occasionally release from the tip of a sable curl to slide along wiry muscle and dip into the shadowed valley of his spine before disappearing into the waistband of his trousers.

James finds himself a bit stunned for a few reasons that his brain is working overtime to catalogue. First because Regulus. Half-naked. And oh Merlin, James is having some of those very non-platonic thoughts again that have to do with his hand on that skin and the difference in their coloring and the distance that could be covered by the splay of his fingers and what his calluses might feel like against what would probably be so soft.

Secondly because while Regulus is undeniably beautiful, it’s the kind that complements his personality. He’s full of sharp edges and off-putting stares and an analytical mind that requires full cognitive functions from everyone just to survive an interaction with him. But this is entirely different. James sort of forgot he had a body under his clothes just like everyone else, and to see it brings him into such sudden, stark relief that it takes James’s breath away.

Thirdly because Regulus hasn’t heard him and how is he supposed to reveal himself now? Would anyone else do anything other than stand here and take in such a rare portrait of contradictions and uncovered beauty? It would be insane, James thinks. A discourtesy to Regulus and the whole notion of aesthetics.

James will blame the unanticipated onslaught of these thoughts and the accompanying hormones when he thinks back to this moment and wonders why it took him so damn long to notice the part that he really can’t forget.

He takes one half step forward as Regulus turns his sweater right-side out and stops when the light and shadows shift along his back.

James looks, closes his eyes, opens them, and looks again.

And what he’d thought to be natural elements of the topography of Regulus’s pale skin shape themselves into stripes. White and pink, raised and sunken into his back, long and short but numerous and so very there, unable to be denied or mistaken and James feels his stomach drop and he’s blinking rapidly to try and adjust the light again into something that explains all this and are those really all scars?

Is someone else in his life covered in scars?

Has he really not known till now?

He breathes out “Regulus…” without even knowing it, but Regulus must hear it because he drops his sweater and whips around to meet James’s eyes and there are more scars, a few across his stomach or reaching up his sides and James spots one on his arm. They look new and shiny in their newness, like the skin hasn’t yet gotten used to being exposed to air and isn’t happy about it. James wants to lay his fingers over them like maybe he could protect them, make them feel better even though he knows it’s futile.

“James.”

Regulus’s voice knocks him back into the present and he takes a step towards him.

“Regulus,” he manages again.

“James, what are you doing here?”

Regulus is looking at him like a cornered animal and that's what unspools the rare thread of rage in James. Because he knows who taught Regulus to look like that, to never see any offer of help for what it is. And he knows what that woman is capable of and he- Merlin, he must have just ignored it and cast off the very idea of Walburga hurting her younger son the way she did her eldest. Now the evidence of his willful blindness is slashed across a living, breathing person, not just any person but one that James wants so badly to wrap up in all the good things he can pull from the world. Already he's failing miserably, and he can't tell if he's more angry with himself for allowing this to happen or with Walburga for having the audacity to leave even the slimmest mark on Regulus.

He takes another step closer.

“Regulus, when did she do this to you?”

“Get out.”

“Reg, answer me,” he says as he closes the distance between them.

Regulus looks like he’s searching for the exits as he snatches up his sweater from the floor. He’s about to shove his arms through when James says “Wait!”

He freezes, and James has just enough time to get a good look at his necklace.

Dangling from the vertex of a delicate silver chain is a ring.

His ring.

The copper-colored one made of twisting strands and tiny ivy leaves.

It looks a bit different now, some of the crevices filled in with a light green residue that clashes beautifully with the orangish metal, but it’s certainly his.

“Is that…” he can’t help himself from asking as he lifts a slow hand to where it sits against the smooth stretch of Regulus's breastbone.

His fingers just graze the metal and warm skin before Regulus is jerking away and aiming a furious glare at James. He yanks his sweater over his head and stuffs his arms in and then all that skin is gone, but James can still see the imprint of the ring under the fabric.

He has enough sense to realize that Regulus is gathering his bag and getting ready to storm out, and he badly wants to reach out and wrap a hand around his wrist but he doesn’t.

“Reg, don’t go yet. Please, I just want to talk to you-”

Regulus turns around with his wand pointed at James.

“Step aside.”

“Regulus, really-”

“James.” There’s no room for arguing with his tone. “Move.”

And after all this chasing, with his head still ricocheting between the shock of seeing Regulus bared before him and the vicious scars splattered across his lovely skin and the glint of that one small token that had meant absolutely nothing in September but now holds so much promise from its deliberate position on a chain around his neck, James is still about to give up. To move like Regulus wants because he doesn’t want him to feel trapped.

But then both their heads turn when they hear “James!” from the locker room entrance.

Sirius finds them like that when he skids around the corner, James ready to plead with Regulus holding him at wand point. He’s out of breath and his eyes bounce between them, but he just says James’s name again. He looks disheveled and disturbed, and James gets the feeling that he’s missed something.

“Pads, what is it?”

Sirius gulps down another breath.

He looks straight at Regulus when he says, “The Ministry. The Death Eaters have attacked the Ministry.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, the whole school is in a state with the news of the attack on the Ministry. The Great Hall buzzes with speculation before the flock of owls swoop in from the windows bringing the paper. There’s a tense few minute of quiet as the entire student body reads over the front page and takes in the shaky picture of masked figures in black and bright spells flying across a dark marble atrium. Then the buzz returns and grows to a roar. Everyone has something to say.

Regulus sits with Barty, Evan, and Dorcas at the Slytherin table with his nose buried in his own copy of the paper. He’s not unaware of the numerous dirty looks that are being cast in their direction from the other tables, but they can stuff their superiority complexes.

He’d been expecting something like this, but it’s still a shock. The Death Eaters are no longer an undercover, grassroots upstart; instead, they’ve publicly announced themselves as a deadly force, powerful and unafraid and proud, sealed by the swirling shape of the Dark Mark suspended in the London sky.

The story itself does nothing to quell suspicion or panic. It spins a tale of an amorphous terrorist organization growing all the time led by a dark wizard of tremendous power, nothing that hasn’t been said before but it’s said much louder now. There are tallies of casualties, gruesome injuries flooding the beds at St. Mungo’s, and 73 Ministry employees and visitors dead, most of which were found in the Muggle Affairs division.

Towards the bottom, there’s a remark on the Ministry’s response. Aurors eventually drove the Death Eaters out, aided by a group of witches and wizards who had arrived after the attack began and launched their own coordinated effort to dispel the intruders. Regulus takes this as confirmation of the force arrayed against the Death Eaters that he’s been hearing about at meetings and feels his head begin to throb.

By his count, that’s two distinct sides now made public.

Perfect for the start of a war.

The piece ends by mentioning that Minister Bagnold was out of the country and posits that the timing of the attack was likely a calculated move on the part of the Death Eaters, whose goals could be summarized as wide-scale destruction and the declaration of their intention to no longer remain hidden.

With the Minister still on her sudden return trip, Barty Crouch Sr. had been called on for a quote as the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. It is as blunt and scathing as Regulus expects.

Tomorrow and for the rest of the week, the Prophet will publish exposés about the group calling themselves the Death Eaters. There will be speculative pieces about their nameless leader and further discussion about safety measures that half-bloods and muggle-borns can take in their day-to-day lives. Once they have time to set their writers on real paths, Regulus is sure there will be more.

For now, the bare facts are story enough.

Pandora appears at Evan’s shoulder and shows him her own paper, folded to the list of names of the deceased. That, more than anything else, makes the whole thing feel like a war.

She points to one and says, “Look, Ev. That’s Mr. Rothburt, our neighbor. He worked in the Ministry.”

Evan scans the name then grabs Pandora’s wrist.

“Write to your mum and dad, Dora. Tell them not to go to the funeral.”

Pandora looks upset.

“But they’d want to be there. He was such a kind man.”

It clearly hurts Evan to see his cousin in distress like this, but he remains firm.

“Dora, you’re already closer to this than I’d like, what with my dad,” he says quietly. “If you can keep your parents from attracting any sort of attention from the Death Eaters, do it. The way things are going, there will be plenty more important funerals they’ll need to attend later.”

They share a look between them, and Pandora nods sullenly. She squeezes in at the Slytherin table next to Evan and pulls out a quill and paper. There’s not much to say after that.

Regulus chances one quick look at the Gryffindor table and sees James and Sirius leaned together over a paper with their friends, expressions concerned and stormy.

He’s secretly a little grateful for the interruption the Ministry attack had provided last night because he’s not sure how much longer he would have held out against the imploring eyes of James Potter. It was bad enough that he’d caught him by surprise but then he’d seen his back, still tender and aching from fresh scars, and the stupid ring. What must he think of that? Some petty token hoarded by a sad boy, strangely cherished despite its absolute lack of value or meaning. He couldn’t possibly have said anything in his own defense.

But Sirius had arrived just in time with one of the very few things that could effectively distract James long enough for Regulus to push past them both. He had looked at Regulus when he announced the attack, like it had taken him this long to consider that his brother might be in a position to know something about it. If Sirius wanted to discuss Regulus’s options with him at some point, that was just fine with him. He was eager to hear how Sirius would pin this too on him.

Cycling through classes feels oddly pointless. Regulus is pretty sure everyone is too distracted with the news to learn anything, and the professors seem aware of this as well. The day passes in a haze until something unexpected gives him pause in Potions.

“Mr. Black,” Professor Slughorn says as Regulus is packing up his bag. Evan is busy storing their ingredients and everyone else is making their way towards the door so it’s just him.

He stands and faces Slughorn fully.

“Yes, Professor?”

“I have received a message from the Headmaster that he would like to meet you in his office this evening after supper.”

Regulus feels his muscles lock. He’s lucky Slughorn isn’t the most observant because he’s sure he isn’t doing his best work disguising his reaction.

He steadies his voice into something pleasant as he says, “Of course, Professor. Did he mention the purpose of the meeting?”

Slughorn gives him a good-natured pat on the shoulder that Regulus struggles not to throw off.

“Oh, not to worry, my boy. A upstanding young man such as yourself, I can’t imagine it’s anything unsavory.”

Regulus can imagine it quite clearly.

Slughorn leaves him with his bag hanging from a clenched fist and a frantic mind.

He goes through it as the evening approaches, early with the short winter days.

The timing is too exact to be coincidental. Regulus has given it some thought and if he had to guess, Dumbledore would be a prime candidate to head the resistance to the Death Eaters. As far as he knows, he’s one of the only wizards in the world, not to mention Britain, powerful enough to stand against someone like Lord Voldemort. Additionally, he’s actually got experience fighting and defeating dark wizards. If he had anything to do with the group that arrived at the Ministry yesterday to push the Death Eaters back, then Regulus is sure he would be interested in looking among his student body for sources of information about the attack. It’s what Regulus would do.

Needless to say, that wouldn’t provide the sunniest topic of conversation.

It seems that everything Regulus has planned for is racing to meet him much sooner than he expected. He needs to have some idea of how he’s going to answer Dumbledore’s questions before he steps foot in that office, but he finds himself stuck in the same cycles of indecision as he was four months ago.

He has information that could end this war before it really has a chance to start. Hell, he has a piece of Voldemort’s soul stuffed under his spare socks. He could trade it for asylum, explain his situation, everything he’s done to avoid joining the Death Eaters’ ranks, and hope that Dumbledore would let him off without conscripting him as a spy, something that would really get him killed. But the more he thinks about it, the less likely it sounds. He already knows the location of another Horcrux, has a tried and proven method of finding at least one more. If he were Dumbledore, he wouldn’t let that go to waste.

Admittedly, Regulus has never actually met the man. He’s held in such high esteem by the whole wizarding world that it feels sort of silly to be speculating about how he might use Regulus as a pawn, but Regulus blames his parents for another bout of insecurity that fuels his innate distrust of authority figures.

And this is a war. Good people will do bad things. Regulus just has to make sure he isn’t making the bad things worse by trusting the wrong person.

Dumbledore isn’t present in the Great Hall at dinner. Regulus suspects he’s been quite busy since yesterday; every politician and news outlet will want his opinion on this matter. When he peels off from his friends and makes his way down unfamiliar corridors, Regulus has decided that if Dumbledore plans to use this meeting as an ambush to pry information out of him, there’s no reason why Regulus can’t use it as a character assessment. Then he can decide just how far he’s willing to trust the Headmaster.

Past the gargoyle and the moving staircase, Regulus comes face to face with a heavy oak door. He can hear nothing beyond it. Just before he’s about to knock, the door cracks open and a genial voice from within says, “Please, come and join me, Mr. Black.”

When he steps in, the door closes softly behind him. Regulus takes a moment to absorb the various levels and whirring contraptions that dominate the office. It’s eclectic but energized and for some reason reminds Regulus a bit of James.

Dumbledore is descending from one of the upper levels and greets Regulus with a warm smile.

“I am very grateful you could take the time to come speak with me, Mr. Black. May I call you Regulus?”

Internally, Regulus eyes the offer for informality with the same suspicion he would candy from a stranger, but Dumbledore doesn’t need to know of his reservations about this meeting. Instead he maintains his posture and secures the mask of impeccable manners that works on all the other faculty.

“Of course, Professor.”

Dumbledore’s eyes glint as he takes his seat behind a large wooden desk.

“Please,” he says, gesturing to a chair across from him.

Regulus sits and folds his hands in his lap. He’s perfected a kind of relaxed attention that makes other people think he’s unconcerned and simultaneously respectful, and it’s served him well in much more dangerous situations than this one.

“I do not wish to waste your time, Regulus. You strike me as an insightful young man with little patience for beating around the bush,” Dumbledore says amiably.

Regulus allows him this evaluation with neither encouragement nor discouragement.

“What is it I can help with, Professor?”

Dumbledore smiles again at his deliberate wording.

“A generous offer. However, I did not ask you here to ask a favor. Rather, I had hoped to deliver a message.”

This throws Regulus off a bit. A message seems a bit below the Headmaster’s purview. Regulus waits for him to continue.

“I trust you have heard about the attack on the Ministry last evening,” Dumbledore says, though it’s clear they both know plenty.

“Yes, Professor.”

“Of course,” he chuckles. “No place in the world provides quite the means for information to travel as Hogwarts does. I expect many of your peers had much to say on the event today.”

“Indeed, Professor.”

Dumbledore seems to catch that Regulus is waiting for him to get to the point.

He leans forward in his chair and says, “I have reason to receive classified information about such happenings in our community, and I have asked you here this evening to disclose to you that one of your cousins sustained an injury in the attack last night.”

Regulus’s brow furrows. While this all but confirms Regulus’s conjecture that Dumbledore is involved with the resistance movement, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense that he would concern himself with an injury in the Black family. As far as Regulus knows, pretty much everyone he’s related to would be on the opposing side.

“Which cousin, Professor?”

Dumbledore acknowledges this with a measured dip of his chin and says, “I regret that the extent of my information is rather limited in this capacity. The whereabouts of the aggressors and their accomplices are difficult to ascertain.”

A concession in what Regulus is quickly realizing is a verbal chess match: Dumbledore acknowledges that Regulus’s family are involved with the Death Eaters and challenges Regulus to deny it or expand on it.

Regulus does neither.

Dumbledore assesses him for a moment then says, “All I can say for certain is that the reports named the Malfoy family.”

Regulus feels the blood drain from his face. An injured cousin connected to the Malfoys would have to be Narcissa. But it makes no sense, Narcissa was always supposed to be removed from the action. She had accompanied Lucius to a few Death Eater meetings but only as his wife. A traditional family like the Malfoys would put Lucius forward first, backed by Abraxas. The wives and sisters supported their male relatives politically and socially, but Narcissa was never in any danger of receiving the Mark, not like Regulus. She shouldn’t have been anywhere near the fighting, especially so early on.

His panic must show on his face because Dumbledore’s tone shifts to something intoxicatingly sympathetic.

“I understand your concern, Regulus. These are dangerous times and we must keep our loved ones close. But I had thought it best that you receive notice of your family’s condition as soon as possible.”

Regulus regains himself well enough to say, “I appreciate your consideration, Professor.”

He can’t quite stop himself from adding, “Is there any news on her condition?”

Dumbledore shakes his head.

“Whatever causalities were sustained by the Death Eaters’ forces are unclear as they have disappeared once again. I have no knowledge beyond what my associates were able to discern in the midst of battle. I apologize.”

Regulus’s mind is racing through all the information hidden like flecks of gold in the solid rock of his worry. The papers would have no chance of revealing the identities of the Death Eaters because of their masks, whether or not it is a bit of an open secret at this point. Dumbledore, however, had his own forces in the fray who would be able to spot familiar figures and suspected sympathizers. The fact that Dumbledore would mention such things to Regulus and share with him information that has not been made public suggests that this is a conversation he doesn’t intend to let leave the room.

Despite all his wariness coming in, Regulus is still grateful to have some word of Narcissa. Better that he knows than receive a nasty shock finding out later.

“Thank you for telling me this, Professor. I’ll send a letter to see if I can find out more.”

Dumbledore smiles at him again.

“I wish your family all the best, Regulus. To you as well. I expect recent events have put you in a very difficult position.”

It’s as smooth a transition as Regulus has ever heard, but after growing up in his house, he doesn’t miss the subtle probe, the open invitation to confide in Dumbledore what might be difficult about that position.

Regulus decides to walk the careful line between divulging information and giving absolutely nothing of consequence. He allows himself to wipe his sweaty palms on his robes, to look a bit more like the young student overwhelmed by pressures from home and school and the larger world.

“It’s been a tense few months, I suppose. My father has been a bit more involved in politics, and my mother always worries when he works so much. She likes to… be included in his projects.”

Dumbledore looks him in the eyes and nods in understanding.

“And yourself, Regulus? I do hope your parents’ concerns have not been impeding on your life and causing you added stress. Sixth year can be quite cumbersome on its own.”

A veiled question.

He starts to say “Well, I-” when he feels it.

A single light brush against his mental shields, no more material than an exhale. It’s gone so quickly Regulus wonders if he imagined it.

But no. It was there.

It’s no shock that a wizard like Dumbledore is a legilimens. It’s practically a given when you become that powerful.

But Regulus had never considered that he would be at risk.

Dumbledore had likely not expected Regulus to have shields of his own. He had probably meant to slip his way into the forefront of Regulus’s mind unnoticed and see what things he didn’t say when asked about himself in relation to his definitely Death Eater parents. He wanted to know what Regulus thought about the Dark Lord and the attack and where his sympathies lie, but he’d backed off immediately when he’d encountered his shields.

Maybe because he didn’t want to work his way through them and risk discovery.

Maybe because he had just discovered something far more valuable.

And this is quite bad because now Dumbledore, a wizard with unimaginable power to wield in the opening moves of a war who has already demonstrated that he has no qualms infiltrating the mind of a sixteen-year-old for his own purposes, knows that his opposition has access to an occlumens, directly or indirectly. And where there’s an occlumens, chances are there is also a legilimens.

If Regulus didn’t have a target on his back before as a potential source of information on the Death Eaters, then he certainly does now as an instrument of incredible value that any warlord would want for himself or at least out of the hands of his enemy.

He has about half a second to cover up his fumbled words before it’s going to be obvious that Regulus noticed Dumbledore’s intrusion, so he babbles on about something to do with the pressures of school and coming back from the holiday. Dumbledore appears no less interested in his inane words than he was in anything else Regulus had to say. It’s off-putting because Regulus is almost convinced by his sincere manner and heartfelt attention that he was never in Regulus’s head at all.

He needs to get out of here.

Luckily, Dumbledore doesn’t seem inclined to drag out their meeting any further. He sits back in his chair, and Regulus takes that as his cue to stand.

“I do hope that if you ever find yourself in an unwelcome situation, Mr. Black, you remain assured that help is always available at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”

Help indeed. Whether he would like it or not, he’s willing to bet.

“Thank you, Professor. And thank you for informing me of my cousin.”

Dumbledore smiles.

“Of course, Regulus. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Regulus steadies his steps out the door and down the stairs, feeling like Dumbledore’s exacting gaze is still pinned on him somehow.

When he gets back to his dorm, he opens his trunk and digs through the clothes to make sure the Horcrux box is still there. He even shakes it a bit and hears the ring rattle around inside. He doesn’t like the nagging thought in the back of his mind that he now needs to protect it from threats inside the castle as well.

Regulus spends most of that night awake trying to sort through the tangled threads of his conversation with Dumbledore. He finds no clarity until breakfast the next morning when he receives a letter from his mother.

He almost wants to laugh. The last time she’d seen him he was unconscious in a puddle of his own blood on their sitting room floor and yet she writes to him at school as if that was the natural way of things. For all she knew, he could have been dead in some London back alley. Though, he supposes, his death probably would have at least made the papers.

She writes as if nothing happened either, with the same strict tone and family gossip. Towards the end she references the “busy activities” that have occupied many of their acquaintances in the past few days, which Regulus takes to mean overt acts of terrorism. She never addresses the Ministry attack explicitly but mentions that Lucius had been recovering from an inconvenient injury that had forced her to relocate their families’ biweekly dinner.

That’s where Regulus stops.

Lucius.

Lucius had been injured.

Not Narcissa.

Technically, Lucius could be considered Regulus’s cousin attached to the Malfoys, not that Regulus gives a damn about him. But Dumbledore had not specified, and that had made all the difference.

What Regulus had taken to be a token of favor from Dumbledore, something small he could do for Regulus that might incline him to reciprocate, reshapes itself into a much more complicated ploy.

Dumbledore likely knows plenty about the Death Eaters and those involved with them. He would know that Narcissa would not be at the attack, but he’d allowed Regulus to believe that his favorite cousin was injured, had made no effort to correct his mistake. Regulus sees it clearly now for what that bit of information really was: a manipulation to put Regulus in a state of emotional distress that might lower his inhibitions and test his loyalties at the same time. If nothing else, it would have worked perfectly to prime him for a bit of subtle legilimency, using his anxiety to churn up his thoughts and make his secrets readily available.

Regulus lets this new understanding sink in as he folds the letter and stores it away.

Dumbledore had used uninvited legilimency against one of his own students, to no avail but that matters very little.

Dumbledore had not lied, perhaps, so much as encouraged a misconception with the intention of leveraging it for information.

Dumbledore now possesses the knowledge that Regulus is a skilled occlumens, likely a legilimens, and comes from a family of high-ranking Death Eaters.

Dumbledore, Regulus concludes, does not pass the character assessment.

Which leaves him in a rather unfortunate position.

There’s no way in hell he can give the Horcrux to Dumbledore now, not when he’d become the Headmaster’s bloodhound, thrust behind enemy lines with no certainty of protection at his back. He wouldn’t put it past Dumbledore to send him on a suicide mission if it meant he’d have someone tracking down the Horcruxes for him.

So Regulus is on his own.

And after the Ministry attack and Pandora’s neighbor and the way the school is steadily drifting into two distinct divisions, peer turned against peer, Regulus can see the road ahead in all its infinite, bloody glory.

He’s the only one who knows there’s no end.

He’s the only one who knows how to carve one out.

He’s the only one who can.

He has to find all of the Horcruxes, without Voldemort knowing, without Dumbledore knowing.

And he has to destroy them.

*

The Ministry attack hangs over the Marauders’ heads like a dark cloud. Sirius seems to take it personally, quiet and short-tempered as they go about their days. Remus approaches it with his usual stubborn caution and keeps an eye on Sirius in the meantime. Peter had looked sick when he’d read the papers but refused to talk about it at any length.

For his part, James had been terrified when he’d realized the counterforce deployed against the Death Eaters was likely the Order of the Phoenix. It was only when he and Sirius received a letter from his parents confirming that they were not at the attack and that all members of the Order were safe that he could finally breath properly again. If anything, he was left with a renewed urgency to plunge into the fray and actually do something instead of all this useless waiting around.

The Marauders finally get the chance to actually sit down and talk through the whole thing about two days after the attack. Well, most of them. Peter had announced he was going to go confer with Mary about their Charms essay when Sirius broached the topic. The three of them watch him slip out the door without another word.

“When’s he gonna look this in the face you think?” Sirius says from his bed. He’s half ready to march downstairs and drag Peter back by the scruff and force him to have this conversation.

“It’ll happen in its own time, Pads,” Remus says. “He’s just scared.”

“Thought he was supposed to be a Gryffindor,” Sirius mutters.

“Gryffindors are allowed to be scared,” James retorts. “Merlin knows I am.”

Sirius looks a bit cowed by that but says, “Still. It’s not like it’s going anywhere.”

James falls backward onto Sirius’s bed and folds his legs up under him. Remus makes his way over and perches on Sirius’s trunk. Sirius instinctively inches closer.

“Well, this certainly puts a damper on our semester,” he says. “This was supposed to be the big one.”

“It’ll still be great, Pads. We just have to make sure it is,” James replies, patting Sirius’s foot.

“We’ll also have to be careful though,” Remus adds in that thoughtful way of his.

Sirius turns his full attention on him like he always does when Remus seems to be thinking through something.

“What do you mean, Moony?”

“Well, maybe not us specifically. But the Death Eaters are operating under a manifesto that prioritizes blood purity above all. It’s not such an unheard-of notion, it’s just been taken to an extreme. Blood supremacy has always been a part of wizarding culture, especially in high-born families.”

Sirius’s expression darkens at that.

“There’s plenty of it in Hogwarts already,” Remus continues. “But this might be the go-ahead some people need to turn their bigotry into something outright violent. Not to mention, there’s definitely students here with connections to the Death Eaters in their families.”

“Slytherins, no doubt,” Sirius spits.

Remus shrugs.

“Not exclusively. But likely, yes.”

“Have you heard anything like this happening, Moony?” James leans forward.

“Lily has mentioned that there’ve been more comments this year. Slurs and such. She and the other muggle-borns in the school have been aware of the conflict a lot longer than we have.”

“Lily…” Sirius says like he’d never thought about it before.

“Mary too,” James adds.

“We need to keep an eye on them,” Sirius says resolutely.

James nods his agreement and asks Remus, “Lily didn’t happen to name names, did she?”

“No, but it’s hardly a guessing game,” he says. “Start by listing the Sacred Twenty-Eight and then move on to the next tier.”

“So who’s that then? Avery?” Sirius begins. Of the three of them he’d have the best handle on who ran in what stratospheric social circles.

“For sure. And where there’s Avery, there’s Mulciber,” James adds.

“Snape hangs out with them too, sometimes,” Remus says.

Sirius scoffs.

“Slimy git. We know for a fact he’s got no love for muggle-borns. There’s also Travers in fifth year.”

“She’s never been much of a problem from what I know,” James says.

“Well, Rosier’s family is plenty stuck-up enough. What about him?”

“I dunno,” James says. “He’s friends with Regulus.”

That puts a stop to their speculation. Sirius looks at him hard, and Remus eyes them both from the side. James knew the conversation would inevitably lead to Regulus, but it had to be done. They need to sort this out.

“And Reggie? Any chance he’s not completely embroiled in this yet?” Sirius says. He sounds like he’s trying to write him off with the same rebuke as everyone else but it’s clearly painful for him.

“I think…” James starts, but it’s all so messed up. “Well, I mean what do you think, Pads? Would Regulus… he wouldn’t do that, would he?”

Sirius sits up and scrubs a hand down his face. He sighs and stares down at his lap for a moment.

“Reggie… the Reggie I knew never wanted to hurt anyone but was always very capable of it. He’d lash out or look away if it meant he’d survive.”

James finds himself agreeing with this assessment. Regulus is ruthlessly practical and has very little care for anyone outside his chosen circle. James isn’t sure where that leaves him or Sirius these days.

“But,” Sirius continues, “honestly, it’s not really a matter of what I think he’ll choose to do because I don’t think he’ll get much of a choice either way.”

Remus leans in closer to prompt Sirius into explaining.

“You have to understand since it’s a blood purity thing, that means it’s a social thing, a political thing, so to Walburga and Orion, that means it’ll be a family thing. There’s nothing more important than family to them,” he says. “Just, not in a good way.

“With something like this, the Blacks will be expected to support the cause but like, in different ways. I don’t know how to explain it, it’s all so antiquated,” Sirius says running a hand through his hair.

“I imagine it’s something like how the aristocracy used to wage wars,” Remus suggests.

“Yes, exactly.” Sirius snaps and points at him. “It’s like each family has to pledge their loyalty and part of that pledge is carrying out the principles in different arenas. Orion will be working on the legislation, of course, not that whatever they’re having him do will be any different from the causes he’s backed in the past,” he mutters.

“Walburga will do what she so loves to do and keep the family in good standing, work things from the wings.

“And Regulus…” he trails off.

Silence for a moment.

Sirius gazes into the distance as he says, “Each family will offer someone to join the fight. Like literally. It’s like a tithe almost, you have to put someone forward. And usually it’s the oldest son, or daughter, but since I’m not there…”

James shakes his knee.

“Cut that out, Pads. It’s not your fault. You had to get out of there, remember?”

Sirius shakes his head and plows on.

“That’s just the way they operate. Even before I left, Bellatrix was already raving about her sacred responsibilities for the Death Eaters. And there’s no way Walburga will let Cygnas and Druella be represented in their ranks and not her and Orion. Regulus will be expected to join, practically forced, whether he wants to or not.

“And he always did what was expected of him,” Sirius says with some bitterness. “That’s how he got along, just kept his head ducked and dodged the blows. I don’t see why this would be any different,” he finishes.

James feels kind of ill. He and Regulus have never talked about the war, each of them taking their time together as some blessed reprieve from the outside world. They had never had reason to talk about it aside from that one brief time when Regulus had asked him what he planned on doing after graduation, to which he had responded by offering… to teach James…

All the pieces are coming together now, and he doesn’t like what he sees.

James had told Regulus he planned to join the war, and Regulus had taught him occlumency. Regulus was the most skilled occlumens and legilimens James could imagine, not that he had any point of comparison. But still, who wouldn’t want that in their arsenal? And if Walburga or Orion knew about it then, according to Sirius, Regulus would make for one hell of an offering to the Death Eaters and their leader.

And if Regulus had taught James, knowing that he’d then join the opposite side of the war, then that meant- what? That he wanted someone on their side to have a way to resist his legilimency? That he’d already been indoctrinated into the Death Eaters and had nothing to lose? That he wasn’t yet indoctrinated but needed someone to vouch for him to the Order when the time came?

James is overwhelmed by the morbid possibilities and even more so by the idea that he could end up standing face to face with Regulus one day, on opposite sides of some invisible but crucial divide.

Would he have to fight Regulus? Could he even do that?

A flash of memory, the ivy ring sitting serenely against pale, scarred skin, and James just can’t handle it.

He stands abruptly from the bed, startling Remus and Sirius from their thoughts, and shoves his hands into his hair as he begins pacing.

“No. He wouldn’t join them. He can’t.”

Sirius looks pained as he says, “James, you don’t get what it’s like. He’s not going to be given a choice, I don’t like it any more than you do.”

“No,” James says again, shaking his head. “There’s no way he would do it. I mean, what does he even get out of it? Nothing!”

“James, you’re not listening.” Sirius turns towards him. “Look, I don’t think Reggie thinks like they do. I don’t think he’s sympathetic to all the blood purity nonsense, he’s just too practical. But as a member of that family, if he wants to live, then he’ll have to join. He’ll have to,” Sirius says desperately.

“Then he should leave!” James shouts.

“Don’t you think I know that?! Don’t you think I’ve tried?”

Sirius looks dangerously close to tears, but James is a bit beyond sensitivity right now. He’s imagining Regulus, clever, careful, beautiful Regulus, slowly swallowed up by a black cloak, those lovely grey eyes snuffed out by a lifeless silver mask. Still, he tries to tame himself into something more reasonable for his best friend’s sake.

“Sirius, honestly,” he pleads. “Shouldn’t we try again? I mean, what’s left for him in that house? No one who would sell him to a cult or cover him in scars can be considered family, he must know that.”

“That’s the thing, though, I don’t know if he knows that. We were told all our lives that we were family and that family is the most important thing and-" Sirius cuts off abruptly, then says, "Wait, what scars? What did you mean by that?”

“I-” James realizes his slip but figures Sirius probably already knows. Remus is watching him closely from where he’s holding Sirius’s hand.

“In the Quidditch changing rooms, two nights ago when I was going to go try and fix things,” James starts. He drags a hand through his hair again and searches for the words to explain to his best friend how his little brother had borne the visible signs of recent abuse splashed along his back.

“He wasn’t… fully dressed when I arrived.” Sirius narrows his eyes, and James rushes to continue before he gets accused of tainting Regulus’s virtue. “I saw his back and it was…there were just so many scars, Sirius. New ones. They’d barely healed from the looks of it. And on his front and sides too. I figured they must have happened over holiday.”

Sirius looks like he might be sick. James knows that similar scars mark his own back, that he still feels them when it’s raining like it was that night last April when he showed up on their doorstep.

“I- I thought she might stop when I left,” he says in a small voice. “I was always the one provoking her, I thought he’d be safe without me there to mess it all up.”

But the truth, James knows, is that Sirius still thought of everything that had happened in Grimmauld as a rational cause and effect relationship. He acted out, so Walburga punished him. It isn’t his fault; he’s just spent his whole life trying to come to terms with why his own mother would hurt him. James knows that there’s nothing so reasonable going on there. Walburga is a violent madwoman. She’ll hurt whoever is closest for no purpose at all, so when her favorite target decided he’d had enough, she’d turned to her second favorite.

It’s a perverted reality, but it’s more true than what Sirius is telling himself.

Sirius is saying something, but James is already far down another path, something about the idea of Regulus trapped in an abusive household, and the deeply etched memory of Sirius showing up bloody at the Potters’ door, the rain, then the snow, and another more recent night drenched in red, and two matching sets of hidden scars on different bodies, and the same emotions of anguish and inefficacy they’d dredged up in James and then he’s saying, “Wait,” and his brain is tying it all together as Sirius says, “What?”

And there it is, like a present with a pretty little bow on top. So neat and well-packaged there’s no way it’s not true.

“Holy fucking hell…” James breathes out, hands back in his hair.

“James, what?” Sirius barks at him, rising to his knees on the bed.

“Merlin’s bloody balls, how did I not see this?” He covers his mouth with his hands as his heart beats out of his chest.

“James!” Sirius shouts and it breaks through the revelation.

James turns to face Sirius’s bewildered look and Remus’s expectant one.

“Regulus is the cat,” he says.

“What?”

James nods to himself because it makes so much sense.

“Regulus is the cat.”

“That doesn’t actually help me, James, what cat- Oh.”

Sirius meets James’s eyes and they both get it now.

“That tricky little bastard,” Sirius says with awe. “He’s an animagus.”

“The scars. And the wounds-”

“Laceros, of course. Fucking Walburga-”

“And how he tripped the wards.”

“And that’s why-” Sirius’s eyes widen. “Padfoot recognized him! I checked on him as Padfoot and he smelled familiar, that’s why!”

“Godric, he even bloody acts like that cat,” James says, his legs giving out and depositing him on the bed.

Sirius blows out a breath.

“Cheated me at cards and everything.”

“Are you still on that?” James says with a slight grin.

“Well, I certainly understand it better now,” Sirius says defensively. Then he pivots himself suddenly.

“Wait, does that mean you spent two days carrying my brother around?”

“Pads, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to come out and say it. If I ever get the chance, I am going to snog your brother senseless. Repeatedly.”

Sirius makes an exaggerated retching sound and covers his face with a pillow.

Remus snickers at him and that directs James’s attention his way. Sirius’s too it seems, if the way he throws the pillow aside and turns to look at him with a furrowed brow is any indication.

“Moony?” he drawls. “You’ve been awfully quiet during this whole revelation.”

Remus looks between them then sighs.

“Alright. I already knew.”

“You what?”

Remus folds his arms over his knees, immune to Sirius’s incredulous expression and James’s open mouth.

“I knew. It was too close to the full.” He shrugs. “His blood smelled like Padfoot’s.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell us?”

Remus makes a complicated face.

“I am sorry about that, but trust that I had to keep it secret. I met Regulus in the kitchen the night before he left and confronted him about it. He was kind enough to reveal to me that he knows about my furry little problem.”

Sirius looks incensed.

“So what, he’s blackmailing you now?”

“Well, technically all his mail is blackmail if you think about it.”

Sirius now looks like he’s about to start throwing things.

James lets out a shocked laugh.

“No, you’ve got to give him that one, Pads. It was too good.”

Remus chuckles and continues, “It wasn’t blackmail, really. He told me he’d known since third year and suggested that there ought to be a bit of mutual discretion in return for his not telling anyone.” Remus gives Sirius a hard look here. “And he was right. I owed him that much. It’s no small thing.”

Sirius seems to be placated by this, enough so that he’s not on the verge of doing anything drastic.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “So Reggie’s the cat. Does that even change anything?”

“Yes, it does,” James says insistently. “Of course it does. Don’t you get it, Pads?”

Sirius waits for him to continue. James can’t believe he has to spell this out, but he will. It’s important. Maybe the most important thing.

“He came to us. When he had nowhere else to go, he came to us.” He grabs Sirius’s shoulder while the truth dawns on his face. “Maybe he wasn’t ready to leave when you asked him last April, Pads. But he is now.”

“You think?” Sirius says quietly.

“Yes,” James says excitedly. He can feel it now, the possibility coursing through him. He can’t believe it took him this long to make the connection but it happened, and not a second too soon. “I don’t know what did it, if it was getting to know me, or Dad’s letter, or everything with the Death Eaters was getting too heavy but he’s already sought us out once. We can get him out of there. Once and for all.”

Sirius is gazing at him with such raw hope. James feels the idea balanced between them, as fragile and invaluable as a Thunderbird egg. Then Sirius reaches up to grasp his wrist and hangs on.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Let’s do it. Let’s get him out.”

*

They spend three days working out how to approach Regulus. Maybe it should worry James that the boy he has a crush on takes an entire committee to navigate but James sees it as a welcome challenge.

Sirius, once on board with the idea, is an absolute force. In his head, it’s a done deal. Regulus needs to get out of Grimmauld Place, so Sirius is going to get him out. James thinks he might see it as some sort of chance at redemption for his failure to persuade him last April or something equally unhealthy, but he leaves it alone.

He’d been insistent that he be the one to confront his brother first, which James would ordinarily have no problem with except for the fact that he still hasn’t managed to apologize to him and he thinks that might put a damper on any inclination Regulus might have to come live with them. They’d had what James would generously not be calling an argument but perhaps what might be considered a rather volumed exchanging of valid opinions.

In the end, it was Remus’s support that decided James as the first to make contact. He’d had a hushed discussion with Sirius about how James had acted as a sort of liaison thus far and was already in a position of contrite vulnerability with Regulus, something that might make him feel as if he had an important upper hand for such a delicate conversation. Plus, there was always the chance that Regulus would take a sudden non sequitur from Sirius as a sort of ambush, and they all knew how that would go. Remus has a rather remarkable read on Regulus’s character in James’s opinion, and it’s clear that Sirius can’t disagree with any of that.

So it’s down to James.

He’s been coached by both Sirius and Remus on exactly what to say. Sirius had even suggested that he take a script which James had summarily revoked.

It has to be real.

Regulus has to know how very genuine this idyllic possibility for his life is.

On Saturday morning at breakfast, the mail comes as usual.

James watches carefully from the Gryffindor table as his owl drops a small note before Regulus. He pauses in stirring his tea to inspect the note with a surplus of caution, then carefully unfolds it.

James and Sirius had agreed that while it would be difficult to get Regulus alone, it would be best to give him no chance to decline to their faces. The note named the Come and Go Room at 8 o’clock that evening. If Regulus shows up or not is out of their control, but James is willing to bet on his curiosity getting the best of him.

It’s a promising start when Regulus tucks the note in his pocket. He looks away before Regulus can catch him staring.

James wiles away the hours and feels every torturous minute of them. Sirius can’t seem to sit still either and takes to distracting himself in progressively more extreme ways, starting by playing Peter in chess and ending by picking a fight with Mary, who’s always willing to go head-to-head. James pretends to make progress on his homework with Moony but gets absolutely nowhere.

By dinner they’re both such live wires that they can’t sit together or something is going to ignite. Sirius sits with the girls instead, and James puts himself at the opposite end of their group. He leaves before anyone else finishes even though it’s not yet gone 7:30 and bounds his way up to the seventh floor.

As he summons the door for the Come and Go Room, he wonders if he’s also summoning a bit of the luck he thinks he’s going to sorely need.

The room when he enters isn’t what he was expecting. It’s about the same size with the fireplace still sparking merrily, but the lone two chairs are gone. Instead, there are multiple sets of chairs, some facing each other, some side-by-side, some back-to-back for a reason James can’t be sure of. Some are deep and stately like they’d been using, while others are a sensible wooden make with no frills. There’s a small sofa too and tables at about waist height scattered throughout. The only clear space is the circular rug set before the glowing hearth.

Maybe James didn’t know what he wanted when he asked for the room. Maybe this is the room’s idea of options for a tough conversation.

For the time being, James is just grateful there’s enough floor to pace.

By his count, Regulus arrives early.

James is on his to way wearing tracks in the carpet when the door creaks enough to tip him off, and he spins on his heel to see Regulus in a dark grey sweater closing it behind him.

For a moment they just stare at each other. This feels like the first time James is seeing him since before the holiday even though it’s not. Something about the Quidditch changing rooms had been so surreal that James hardly even counts it in his head; the Regulus he’d met there had not been the Regulus James is used to but an illicit, stripped-back version, sort of like the one from Halloween night. They were both instances of such abrupt forced intimacy that James had felt like he’d overstepped some boundary without having any sort of permission. He’d much rather Regulus choose to bare that vulnerability to him than have it surprised out of him.

But here, now, Regulus is irrevocably himself, in all the forms James has slowly come to know. He’s impeccably put together, curls neat, clothes practically tailored, spine straight. His expression is as closed-off and cold as it was in the very beginning of their meetings, which would crack something deep inside James if he didn’t know better.

Because Regulus is also here.

He came of his own volition, and the Regulus James knows always takes a chance, a shot in the dark when trying a new transfiguration strategy or a move on his broom that betrays an inborn sliver of wild, untamable hope that James knows he wishes he could have subdued by now.

James begs any greater power out there that it never happens. Regulus is a walking contradiction, a constant struggle between his pragmatic acceptance of a dark reality and that restless little What if that keeps him going.

James is here to feed the hope.

Regulus naturally falls into his defensive state before the conversation even begins.

He folds his arms across his chest, and James has enough time to glimpse those silver rings before he says, “Why am I here, James?”

James almost wants to say “You tell me?” Force Regulus to admit why he’d entertain a note from James directing his person and demanding his attention. But that will get him nowhere, and this is too important. They can play later.

“I just want to talk, Regulus.” He takes a few steps forward and Regulus positions himself with a table between them. James takes a breath and starts small.

“How was your break?”

Immediately it’s the wrong question. Regulus’s eyes narrow.

“Is this a joke?”

“No, Merlin, I’m sorry,” James covers his face. “That was… tactless.”

For a moment, the memory of Regulus’s scarred back sits heavy between them.

James mentally shakes himself. Patience, yes, but not at the expense of honesty.

“Your holiday was shit, I’m sorry to hear it.”

James thinks he might almost see a smile, and that sends electricity zipping through his body.

Newly encouraged, he says, “What I meant was more, how are you?”

Regulus still looks suspicious but begins a slow walk around the table and the edges of the room as he considers his words.

“I’m alright, I suppose. Relatively speaking.”

James nods and turns to follow him with his eyes. With Regulus circling him like this, it’s so, so obvious now that it’s the action of a cat, a hunter, with the same graceful prowl. Despite having been the one to orchestrate this meeting, James still feels a bit like prey. He finds that he doesn’t really mind.

“That’s about the best that can be hoped for, I guess.”

Regulus nods vaguely, keeping his eyes on James the whole time, and damn it James wishes he were here for any other purpose because that look is doing things to him but he has to talk to Regulus first. So he jumps right in.

“I’m assuming when I say this, but is the relatively speaking part a reference to the Death Eaters?”

Regulus stops behind a set of chairs.

“Is that what we’re talking about tonight?” he says with no inflection.

James swallows.

“One of a few things to touch on.”

Regulus cocks his head and rests a deliberate hand on the back of the chair.

“Fascinating. I was wondering when we’d get here.”

James can’t help a surprised “You were?”

Regulus gives an elegant one-shouldered shrug.

“You said you’re joining the war after you graduate. The attack on the Ministry has reinvigorated those plans, I’m sure.”

James isn’t quite aware of when the conversation turned to him, and he feels as if he’s lost his footing to Regulus’s subtle manipulations once more.

“It has,” he says tentatively.

“Of course,” Regulus says with feigned interest. “At least you’ll be able to die well then. I bet your parents will love watching that.”

It’s so cutting and so cruel that James is speechless for a second. He’s become spoiled by Regulus’s gentle attentions all these months, he’d forgotten this side of him lurked under the surface. He’s just now realizing he’d never really been on the receiving end of Regulus’s enmity before if this is what it feels like.

“Will you drag my brother with you?” Regulus asks innocently. “Or he’s probably just as eager to go. It’s been a while since he’s had something to provoke into hurting him. No, I’ll bet it’s Lupin and Pettigrew you’ll bring along. Those two aren’t nearly as combative, too smart for it. But they’ll trail the two of you like you’ve practically trained them to.”

James’s blood is boiling.

“That’s not-”

“No?” Regulus crosses his arms again. “Have you even asked them if they want to join the cause?”

And come to think of it, no. Remus has sat in on his and Sirius’s conversations, contributed minimally, and Peter has always avoided the topic like dragonpox. James had just assumed he’d come around eventually.

Regulus can see all this playing out on his face.

“Of course you didn’t. It’s hardly up to them, though. One word from you or Sirius and they’d be throwing themselves bodily in front of you, for better or worse.”

Another fear of James’s, like Regulus is pulling them straight out of his mind.

“Stop that. I mean it, Regulus, cut it out. That’s not true and you know it.”

“Isn’t it though? They’re your little pets, just how you like them.”

“No, it’s-”

Ah.

James gets it now.

Sees just how the cat scratches when it’s cornered. James won’t walk away unscathed, but that’s alright.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“You don’t have to do this anymore, Reg. I know what’s going on.”

Regulus doesn’t like that.

“Oh, do I have your permission? Why thank you, but it may come as a surprise to you that I don’t actually require your say-so like so many other people seem to.”

“Regulus, enough. I know you don’t want me in this war.”

Regulus stills, and that’s all the confirmation James needs. He’d had to remember Regulus’s seemingly arbitrary offer of occlumency lessons back in September. With the new perspective on his situation at home—surrounded on one side by his evil parents and on the other by the Death Eaters, the prospect of facing his friends and family in a war he wants no part of dangling over him like an executioners’ axe—James knows deep down that Regulus is just trying to scare him away from the whole conflict. Because James is his friend, and Sirius is his family, whether Regulus admits it or not. And all the teeth and claws and words like daggers that had been working their way under James’s skin just moments before were his best effort to shame James into reconsidering his commitment.

It's effective, he’ll give him that. But Regulus taught him occlumency, and whatever his reasons were in the beginning, he’s enabled James to resist his own attacks should they find themselves enemies in some twisted corruption of the collaboration they had enacted together in this very room.

James owes him for that. He owes Regulus his ability and willingness to see past his aggression to the core of his fears.

He sets his shoulders and steps closer to Regulus. Let him try to push him away. He’s had his turn, and now it’s James’s.

“I know you don’t want me to fight, and I know you don’t want Sirius to either. We’re the people who care about you and it scares you to think you’ll see us on the opposite side of the war.”

Regulus’s face is set in his mask, but he’s pale and tense.

“I know, Regulus. Because I’m scared of that too.”

He takes another step and Regulus moves around to put the chair between them. The firelight ignites one half of his stony face and casts the other in shadow.

“I know that you’re expected to join the Death Eaters. That you don’t have a choice. Sirius explained it all-”

“Oh, now Sirius thinks he understands anything?” Regulus spits. “That’s a laugh. I hope you didn’t give too much weight to whatever he said, James. It’s not like he’s been around.”

“He wants you out of there, Reg!” James turns to keep Regulus in sight as he absorbs this. “He’s always wanted you out of there. And I get it,” James rushes to say as Regulus opens his mouth, doubtless to retort with something about Sirius’s departure. “You couldn’t leave when he asked you the first time. I don’t know your reasons and I don’t need to. I trust you had them.”

James rakes his hands through his hair again.

“But I know you want to get out of there too. And that has to be reason enough to go.”

“And how do you think you know all this, James?” Regulus says as he takes a few brisk strides onto the carpet. “Have you suddenly become a legilimens without my knowledge? That’s quite impressive.”

James steels himself and steps towards him again.

“No. I’m no legilimens. But I don’t need to be.”

Another step.

“I know because you’re reluctant to write to your own mother.”

Another step.

“Because going home makes you physically ill.”

Regulus looks trapped again, but James doesn’t let up.

“Because you’re covered in the marks of brutality from people who are supposed to love you and don’t.”

Regulus makes an aborted movement as James takes one last step, lessening the distance between them until the toes of their shoes are almost touching and Regulus has to look up to meet his eyes.

“And because you ran away when your family tried to kill you. Because you still want to live, just not like that. And when you ran, you came to us.”

And there it is, an enormous carcass of a truth spread out before them to appraise together.

James sees the realization on Regulus’s face, then the acceptance. If nothing else, Regulus Black is dangerously adaptable. He’ll take this in stride because he has to.

“I see you,” James says softly. “I’m sorry it took me so long, and I’m sorry I messed up on the way. But I got here, and now I see you. No matter the body.”

Just like Regulus had done for him when James had shown him his shields.

Regulus is breathing heavily, and his eyes, storm grey like this but as silver as mercury when he’s the cat, bore into James. James doesn’t look away.

“Fine,” Regulus says, barely above a smoky whisper. “You have me all found out. What do you intend to do with it?”

James shakes his head. Even after all this, Regulus still thinks James is just looking for a way to take advantage of him.

“Nothing, Regulus. That’s not what this is about.”

“Enlighten me, then. What’s it about?”

“You came to us,” James says. “Just like Sirius did when he had nowhere else to go. You came to us because you knew we would help you, and we did. We always will. Me, Sirius, Remus, my parents, all of us, we can help you.”

But Regulus is taking a step back, his expression a sort of condescending understanding.

“You said it yourself, James. I had nowhere else to go. And yes, I needed help in the moment and you gave it to me. For that I’m grateful.”

James clings to the sincerity on his face, barely there.

“But I’m better now. And I don’t need help anymore.”

James can hardly believe what he’s hearing. He lets out one incredulous laugh.

“Regulus, you’ve got to be joking. You’re smarter than this. Do you really think something like that will never happen again? And more than that, you’d still have to join the Death Eaters. Are you suddenly so eager?”

Regulus’s expression darkens.

“Don’t make me regret seeking you out, James.”

And that’s a threat because James can see how very close he’s getting to making Regulus feel like he owes the Potters for their aid. Like they’re going to leverage it against him or use it to trap him. James backtracks while he still can.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I’m not trying to complicate anything, Regulus. But you found us when you needed help, and we’ll never not offer it,” James says, thinking of Monty’s words in the kitchen. “We’re offering now. You can leave that house, and your parents and the Death Eaters, all of it-”

“Then it was a mistake,” Regulus cuts in.

James is silent. He doesn’t know what to say to that, what it could possibly mean.

Regulus is happy to clarify.

“If you think that because I found you once when I needed a few scratches patched up-”

“A few scratches?”

“If you think that means I’m suddenly looking to uproot my whole life and toss it all away like Sirius did then it was a mistake to seek you out. It was a moment of weakness.” Regulus plows on. “I’m not asking for any of what you claim to be offering, James. So I suggest you take it back before you embarrass yourself.”

“Fuck that, Regulus! Who’s embarrassed? Do you think there’s some indignity to this situation? Is that what’s holding you back from leaving, like you’ve lost some game or something?”

“Oh, so it’s a game now? Nice to know you give it its proper gravity, James.”

“I’m not the one who’s discounting the gravity here. What the fuck are a few scratches? You were almost dead! You almost bled out in my sitting room as a cat, and I had to watch as I almost lost yet another friend!”

“Poor James. Whatever do you do when you can’t control everything around you?”

James swipes at his eyes under his glasses and breathes deeply. Regulus has lured him into another argument without him even realizing it. He has to get himself under control and get back to the important part before he says something witless that messes this all up further.

“I know you don’t mean that. And I’ve said what I meant, Regulus. You can’t live there anymore. Those people will kill you, they almost did. And the choices you’re being given are not choices at all,” James says with as level a tone as he can manage. “You know this. But there’s a way out and I’m showing it to you right now. It’s yours, Regulus. No price, no debt, no tricks, nothing. All you have to do is take it.”

Regulus stares at him, silent.

James presses his advantage.

“It’s not even a matter of getting out anymore, it’s just a matter of not going back. It’s easy, Regulus. Just-”

He steps forward and takes Regulus’s cool hand gently.

“Come home with us for Easter. Meet my parents for real. They’ll love you, they already do. And you can be with me and Sirius. He really wants you out of there. Just like I do. And you won’t have to worry about anything your parents would ask of you or anything they might do if you refuse. Just come home for Easter. Please.”

It comes out like the plea of a lover, and in a way it is. Regulus may not yet know what James feels for him but the sentiment is the same, the same desperate attempt to implore Regulus to care for himself the way James does for him. He feels like he’s laid himself completely bare, like his thoughts must be so obvious in this moment. He almost hopes they are. To James, they feel overwhelming and powerful enough to protect Regulus from any evil, if only he could wield them correctly.

But Regulus just looks at him.

Then he pulls his hand back and says, “No.”

James struggles to turn that one word over in his head.

“No?”

“No.”

“Then what? You’re just going to go back to Grimmauld?”

He says it like a joke because it can’t be true. Not when he just barely made it out. But Regulus doesn’t say anything to refute it.

“Reg, you can’t be serious. You’re not actually thinking of going back.”

“I have to, James.”

James is ready to tear his hair out.

“No, you don’t! Have you listened to nothing I’ve said this whole time?”

“I’ve listened to it all. You make some compelling arguments and some laughably ignorant ones, but it doesn’t change the fact that I have to go back.”

“Why?” James’s patience is running thin. He can’t stomach any more persuasive tactics or logical reasoning. He just needs the complete truth right now because Regulus is speaking like he’s gone mad. James paces a few steps away and turns abruptly back. “If I’m giving you someplace else to go, why do you have to go back?”

Regulus shakes his head.

“Is it not enough that it’s my home? That they’re my family?”

“No, it’s not. We’ve established that that’s no home and those people haven’t been family for a long time. So why? Explain it to me.”

Regulus is shutting himself off again.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, James. And even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

James latches on to that.

“So you can’t tell me? Is it a Death Eater thing, then? Because we could protect you, you know. My parents are part of the countermovement. It’s called the Order of the Phoenix and there’s no way they wouldn’t take you in. That’s their whole purpose, protecting innocents-”

“The Order of the Phoenix, is it?” Regulus looks like a snake who’s just spotted prey. “Charming name. Tell me, does Dumbledore happen to have an affiliation with this group?”

James isn’t sure why that matters but if it persuades Regulus then he’s happy to divulge.

“Yes, he’s their leader. He started the Order almost two years ago.”

“Then you can be sure I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

James is so sick of feeling lost. How is it that he’s always playing catch-up with some wealth of information Regulus refuses to let him in on?

“Regulus, what? What’s Dumbledore got to do with this? He’s the most powerful wizard in the world practically. You could have no one better looking out for you.”

“Oh, I’d bet he’d look out for me. Just like he would for you. What’s the good of all that power if you can’t hoard it for yourself and recruit child soldiers to do the dirty work?”

“What are you talking about? This is Dumbledore, he’s-”

“He’s just like any other power hungry warmonger, James. Wars aren’t conducive to making idols so I hope you don’t hold him in too high regard. Have you ever asked yourself why Dumbledore would let you join his army? We’re practically children, James. This shouldn’t even be our fight.”

“But it is,” James snaps. “And I won’t let anyone fight it in my stead.”

“Fine, suit yourself,” Regulus says with a wave of his hand. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t go telling Dumbledore that I’m an occlumens. Who knows what kind of plans he’ll have for you.”

James is a bit shocked by the solid distrust for Dumbledore Regulus seems to have. James had always respected the man. The rest of the wizarding world certainly does, but Regulus is firm in his position and that makes James think there’s something else he doesn’t know. Especially with that warning against sharing his fledgling occlumency.

Still, he’s got to find something that will get through to Regulus.

“Alright, so you won’t join the Order. That’s your prerogative. I won’t make anyone fight a war who doesn’t want to. But you still can’t stay in that house. It’ll eat you alive before you know it.”

“And I’ve already told you that I can’t leave. I’ve given you my reasons.”

“You haven’t given me shit and I’ve already told you that you can leave, you have everything you need to-”

But Regulus finally breaks.

“Enough James!” he shouts as he whirls on him. “Just stop! You think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

Regulus’s has one hand clenched in a fist and the other pulls his hair away from his face in a tight grip. James is frozen by the sudden change in his demeanor, the crack of his icy patience split down the middle.

“I’m not one of your little friends,” he bites out. “You can’t just collect me and put me in your pocket so you don’t have to worry about me going off and doing something you won’t like.”

His mouth curls into an deprecating smirk when James can’t say anything against that.

“Yeah, I’ll bet it feels real good to finally have darling Sirius under your roof all the time. And Remus, practically tethered to the two of you by some joke of circumstance.”

Regulus shakes his head and backs away a step.

“But that won’t be me. You can’t have me like that. I know what I have to do, and you know what? You’re going to hate it,” he hisses at James. “Every tedious bloody minute of it because I have to be the one to do it. And you won’t be able to help me and you damn well won’t be able to stop me.”

His eyes blaze with the challenge.

“I know you’ll hate it and I’ll do it anyway because this war is going to be about what needs to be done and who has the guts to get their hands dirty and do it. I’ve listened to you paint some pretty little picture about good against evil and, really, I envy you,” he says savagely. “It must be so convenient to see it all like that.

“But this isn’t some game, James. We’re not playing heroes versus monsters.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. Then he sighs and looks at James like he wishes he were something different, something better.

“And I know I won’t be able to convince you of that cause you’ve got a savior complex wide enough for the whole fucking country. So go ahead, James,” he says, resigned. “Save the world.”

He casts one last vitriolic look his way.

“But you don’t get to save me. I don’t need saving.”

He strides to the door and lets it slam behind him, leaving his words echoing in the small space.

Regulus had said that he doesn’t need saving, but all James hears is that Regulus doesn’t need him.

He feels his knees give out, and he collapses abruptly but he doesn’t fall far because he’s caught be a stray chair. Maybe that’s what they’re all for.

James doesn’t have it in him to pick through their whole disastrous conversation right now. He feels scraped clean by some serrated weapon, empty of everything and with layers missing and new layers bleeding and sensitive.

After a while, long enough that the little fire has dimmed to something quiet and red in its hearth, James stands and leaves. The door snicks shut behind him and sinks back into the stone.

He makes his way to Gryffindor tower and up the stairs to their dorm.

The Marauders are waiting for him. Sirius bolts up on his bed with hopeful eyes and says, “Prongs? How’d it go?”

And that’s when James can’t hold back the tears any longer.

He falls into his best friend’s arms and closes his eyes against the whole wretched world.

Chapter Text

One thing that most people would not guess about Sirius Black is that he is capable of patience. It’s not something even he himself would have guessed for the vast majority of his life.

He’s made of impulses, quick zips of want and need that steer his decisions in directions both good and bad. It was an impulse that stuck his eyes to a beaming boy with wild dark hair and glasses far too big for his face on the platform at King’s Cross at the tender age of eleven. It was an impulse that informed him He looks like fun, and another that dismissed what his mother would have to say about such an association. Sirius has found the best people in the world and built new families from the ground up based on impulses, so he’s not opposed to them.

Then again, it was an impulse that had him luring Snape into a deadly trap one cursed April night. An impulse that betrayed the boy he loved, who had already been dismissed by so many, and allowed him to discount his life and dignity and happiness so thoroughly that he still woke up disgusted by himself sometimes. So they have their pitfalls too.

Sirius has learned, though. It took a lot of self-reflection, something he wasn’t afforded until he could do so in an environment where he wasn’t constantly worried about his mother barging into the room and taking out her incomprehensible anger in blood, an environment where he wasn’t keeping one eye open at night for both himself and his little brother who seemed to have no intention of ever standing up for himself. The realizations he came to were painfully won but well worth it.

The first thing he had needed to do was listen to people like McGonagall and Effie. The act of listening had always come with the risk of losing himself; if he let himself listen to the things his mother had to say about him, he would eventually believe them.

Then he wouldn’t be much of anybody.

But learning to listen to Professor McGonagall and Effie had come hand in hand with learning to let himself be loved by them. He was used to pining for that sort of love, from someone older and wiser who wanted to help him and wouldn’t attach a price to their affection. He came to realize that wanting it and accepting it were two very different things.

Over the summer he’d spent with the Potters (he’s trying to reframe that in his mind, to think of it more as his first summer at home but it’s still tricky sometimes), Effie had coaxed him out to the back garden. Sirius had known that he was driving James mad and putting more pressure on him than his poor best friend deserved with all his drama. But Sirius couldn’t help it. He was a mess. It felt like he’d been splashed in acid and critical pieces of him had corroded away to allow for all his problems and emotions and fears to seep out of him and stain his hands in sticky sludge that got all over James when he reached out for help.

But on one hot July afternoon, Effie had invited him to come sit with her outside, and he had, for lack of anything better to do and out of some obligation to do whatever Effie asked of him always and forever. They’d ended up sitting in two metal garden chairs, not too close to each other, in absolute silence. Sirius had thought that maybe she wanted to talk to him, to force him to try to scoop up all the toxic sludge and begin the improbable process of somehow shoving it all back inside himself through the cracks. But she’d just sat there with her hands folded. He’d watched her as her scarf blew in the slight breeze and she’d smiled back at him but said nothing.

After some time, he found himself looking around and noticing things he hadn’t been able to through the haze of his misery. Monty grew roses along the edge of the garden. James had once told him that he did it for Effie like some perpetual gift to her, one that he never stopped working to give to her over and over again.

He noticed a rake with a broken handle propped against a low wall and wondered if it was Effie or Monty or maybe even James who broke it and if they’d laughed when it happened.

He noticed the sound of the trees rising and falling with the wind and dissected it in his mind until he could think of it as the sound of one leaf slipping against another multiplied a thousand times over.

They’d sat outside together for almost an hour and neither of them said anything.

When Sirius spotted Effie in her chair in the garden the next day, he’d taken the steps down and tentatively sat next to her. She smiled at him warmly again and then they both turned away to engulf themselves in the quiet.

He’d made it a habit, testing different times of day and night, staying for ten minutes or two hours, with Effie or without. And after a while of noticing things, he began to understand them too.

He understood that at some point in August, the sludge had stopped trickling out. He was still covered in it and tracked a puddle with him wherever he went, but at least there wasn’t more.

He understood that he wasn’t expected to smear it along the jagged cracks of himself and hope to contain it all again, but that he could start to clean it up. First from himself, then maybe from James and Effie and Monty.

He understood that his vision was much clearer when he wasn’t trying to wipe the tears away with sludge-covered hands.

Effie was a healer by trade, and she had taught him with no words how to heal himself and that the first step was to stop the bleeding.

So he credits her with his new temperance, with the willingness to hear and think and at least consider impulses before he gives in to them.

They haven’t gone away. They never will because they’re who he is, but he at least feels like it’s a more even trade between them now and that they don’t rule him as they once did.

At their best, his impulses even work hand-in-hand with his patience. He’d forced himself to take his time with Remus at the beginning of the year instead of cornering him into the doomed emotional explosion that had been pressing against the inside of his skin ever since he’d realized the assault of feelings he’d been harboring for years. That had been the right tactic, Sirius is sure, until it wasn’t. Until it went on too long and got Moony hurt and put Sirius dangerously close to that desperate edge again.

Then it’d been impulse that guided him to the words that Sirius had laid before Remus in their dorm after Hogsmeade, the words that had led to Remus coming close to him and lowering his head until it rested against Sirius’s like it was some remarkable weight he’d finally been allowed to put down. He credits impulse again for the spark of wild courage that had tilted his chin up and placed his lips on Remus’s for one soft exchange of breath. And if that was due to impulse, then the subsequent arm wrapped firmly around his waist and the hand in his hair and Remus’s mouth taking from his like it was owed to him (and it so was) also had to be because of impulse.

Sirius has found himself swinging like a pendulum, finally at peace with himself trading off moments of impulse and patience ever since.

It was patience that reigned in his shock and confused aggression when he’d learned of James’s exploits with Regulus all semester. And patience again that helped him piece together the changes in James’s demeanor into a picture of unbearable fondness that only James was capable of. Fondness for his brother.

But impulse had left him shrugging and saying the equivalent of “Fine, whatever, this might as well happen,” when James had finally admitted to his feelings for Regulus and watched Sirius with a (totally valid, quite sensible) trepidation.

Sirius had seen James cocky and charming and thoughtful and depressed, livid after the Prank, on the verge of losing his mind over the summer, but there was nothing like James’s happiness. It was contagious and precious all at once, and if his tricky, recalcitrant little brother was making James so happy it drove him to distraction while surrounded by his best friends just so he could spend another second or two with the memory of Regulus in his head, then Sirius was not going to stand in their way.

At first he hadn’t believed anything of the sort could happen between them. Regulus was difficult at the best of times and never in any type of mood to accommodate people. Sirius had grown up with him, and when he’d found his own head turned by studious-looking boys who were secretly dangerous, Regulus had looked at him like he’d declared his intentions to start kissing beetles. He’d brushed it off as Regulus extending his general dislike of most people into a general dislike of romance. He wasn’t sure of course—their relationship had degraded too far by that time to ever broach the topic—but it wouldn’t have surprised him. And if it turned out to be true, he knew James would respect it; that was a lesson he had watched his best friend learn thoroughly.

But what had surprised him was James’s intensity about it all.

James was the kind of person meant for constant love. He made the most sense when seen with his parents, participating in their easy exchange of compassion for each other. Or in the midst of his friends, the electric and energetic and exaggerated version of himself he fell into when he wanted to make them all smile. Or when he had a crush on someone, a single point to consume all his excess attention and well-meaning obsession. James needed people to love like he needed air to breathe. Regulus Black was an odd choice but again, Sirius wouldn’t stop them.

However, he had only truly realized how deep into this James already was when he’d talked with him and Remus about the Ministry attack. As much as Sirius hated the idea, he could also see himself facing Regulus in a war; in a way, he and Regulus had always been circling each other with an invisible divide between them, sometimes on the same side, sometimes on the opposite. But James hadn’t even been able to entertain the thought.

He had practically begged Sirius to help him try once more to get Regulus away from the Blacks. And it’s not that Sirius didn’t want to. He wanted it more than anything but could only admit that in the very dark hours of night. His failure to get him out the first time had just felt too final. He had tried for their entire lives and the one moment it mattered he had not succeeded.

And that was it.

And it was over.

Sirius had already lost the war.

But just like his happiness, James’s hope was a powerful and intoxicating thing. If he thought things were different enough now, if Moony thought it was worth a shot, then Sirius owed it to Regulus to light that flame and risk the excruciating pain of it going out again for the small chance that it wouldn’t.

Then James had returned from his talk with Regulus hollow-eyed and inconsolable. And Sirius hated that part of his little brother that was so hard-hearted. It was the same part that had facilitated his survival in a version of hell for his entire life but that was now causing him to hurt James Potter, who had no business placing himself in striking range of a weapon like Regulus. Sirius was disappointed too, felt that flame gutter with the blow, but it had only renewed his resolve. Remus knew it when he’d met Sirius’s eyes over James’s sobbing form clung tightly to his shoulders.

If nothing else, he now needs to speak with Regulus to stop him from being so damn mean to his best friend.

But no more. He shouldn't have ever let himself be talked out of confronting Regulus first.

Sirius isn’t afraid of Regulus, never has been. He’s riddled with guilt and anger and longing and maybe a little bit of concern that he hasn’t spoken to his brother in so long, he’s probably out of practice, but James was right. The time to try again to pull Regulus away from their family had come well before this moment.

So he’s walking side-by-side with his impulse and his patience down to the Quidditch pitch to have a friendly chat with his little brother.

It’s the only place he knows he can find Regulus for sure, which in and of itself is a bit shameful. As an eleven-year-old, he’d imagined a life for the two of them within the blessedly safe walls of Hogwarts where they would tease each other in the halls and seek each other out for company. Where Regulus would bug him for answers to homework he’d done the year before, and Sirius would take great pleasure in occasionally blowing off his friends to go hang out with his little brother. They’d be infamous and notorious and impossible to ignore together, an unmatchable force by any standard.

But none of that had happened.

Instead the quiet resentment had grown, a two-way street with them posted up at either end, and they’d somehow managed to lead completely separate lives despite living in the same building for most of the year.

As he walks through the snow now, Sirius can admit it had probably taken some effort on their parts to so thoroughly exclude each other from their every day. And it makes him a little angry, at both of them, and a little sad, for both of them.

He sees a shadow zooming through the frigid night when he makes his way onto the grass of the inner pitch and just takes a moment to watch Regulus fly. He’d always been better between the two of them, but Sirius had never been able to begrudge him his superior skill. Not when it made him so happy.

He knows the moment Regulus spots him because he jerks his broom around and comes to a halt high in the air. Sirius can’t see which way he’s looking but it’s not hard to imagine his head turned in his direction. He takes it as a good sign that Reg descends and lands on the grass not too far away.

Regulus walks towards Sirius and as his face slowly comes into view, Sirius can see that carefully maintained neutral expression that discourages so many people from ever approaching him.

So Regulus isn’t going to make this easy on him. Sirius would almost be disappointed if he did.

Regulus stops when he’s about two meters away. He’s got his broom in hand and is still breathing hard as they stare at each other.

Then he says, “Is this because I made your best friend cry?”

“Well, I’m not thrilled about that.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Let me guess, you’ve finally come to make the request yourself now that you can’t hide behind your first option anymore?”

“I actually lost that argument when we were deciding which one of us would get to talk to you.” Sirius crosses his arms. “You’re a bit of a prick for making us feel like we have to have a whole battle plan in place just to gain an audience with you.”

“Oh, my heart. Don’t start insulting me now, Sirius. I might think you still care.”

He brushes past Sirius and heads in the direction of the changing rooms.

Sirius shuts his eyes tight and thinks of Effie and sitting in the sun and patience.

Then he follows his brother.

Regulus has set his broom aside and is pulling his bag from a locker. Sirius wouldn’t be surprised if he plans on cleaning up back at the castle after James had ambushed him here last time. Regulus isn’t the type to make the same mistakes twice.

Sirius leans against the lockers opposite him so he can watch as he pulls off his gloves and tucks them away. His motions are quick and sharp, and Sirius can tell he’s expediting his actions to get away from him as fast as possible.

It’s a bit depressing. And also a bit insulting.

“James told us what you’d talked about yesterday,” Sirius starts.

“I’d figured as much,” Regulus mutters. “Nothing remains secret between you two. Certainly not when you take on a group project.”

Sirius considers that because Regulus certainly hates the idea that people are talking about him or know things about him that he’s not aware of. He gets it from their mother.

“Honestly, I don’t think I was as surprised as he was that you didn’t just give in,” Sirius continues. “It looks like he’s got a sort of rosy vision of you from where I’m sitting.”

Sirius doesn’t miss it when Regulus’s hands stutter in their motion. And that’s very interesting.

“Well, it’s not my fault he’s delusional,” Regulus says after a minute.

“Charming. You should tell him that.”

“I have.”

Sirius can’t help but snort.

“Of course you have.”

Regulus whips around.

“Are you here for a purpose, Sirius?" he snaps. "Or is it just to pretend like you still know me? You want to play good old days? Frankly, I don’t find it convincing.”

Patience, Sirius reminds himself again. But impulse is telling him to get on with it.

Sirius looks Regulus up and down, knowing how much it will annoy his brother to have someone who’s not cowed by him forming opinions they refuse to share.

“James told me everything,” he says again. “We’d talked about what he should say beforehand. Remus even pitched in.”

Regulus’s eyes narrow at that.

“Oh, don’t be such a child, Reg. If you’re going to act like one, the adults are going to talk about you as if you have to be managed like one.”

He knows Regulus isn’t a child, not like that at least. Sure, he’s spoiled and hasn’t been given the room to emotionally mature the way he should have, but he’s been through more than most people twice his age. They both have.

No, Sirius is just taking the opportunity to annoy the fuck out of his brother in the way he hasn’t been able to for the last six years.

“I think he did a pretty good job, all things considered,” Sirius says nonchalantly. “He hit on all the points we told him to despite all your efforts to goad him into a fight. He told you everything we both wanted to say.”

Regulus shoulders his bag, done with Sirius’s game.

“Great. Go give him a hearty pat on the back and leave me the fuck alone since he’s already said everything.”

Sirius doesn’t move as Regulus walks past him towards the door.

“There’s just one thing I would have done differently, I think,” he says before Regulus can disappear into the night. His hand rests on the door but he’s stopped.

“And what’s that?” he asks after a moment. He doesn’t turn around, so Sirius faces him from his position against the lockers.

“James said that you said you couldn’t leave. You said couldn’t. Not wouldn’t.”

Regulus doesn’t move.

“It made me wonder, last April when I asked you to come with me... was it couldn’t or wouldn’t then?”

No answer, so Sirius keeps going.

“I’ve thought about it. A lot. About how we both had our own ways of surviving that house. About how you always wanted me to duck my head and fly under the radar like you did.”

Sirius takes one step closer.

“I came to hate you for it cause I thought you were ungrateful for all the times I stuck my neck out for you. But you were just trying to return the gesture, protect me in your own way, weren’t you?”

Regulus turns his head only slightly. His curls cover the side of his face so Sirius can’t see his eyes, but it’s enough that he’s still listening.

“Which then made me think that maybe you were still trying to protect me last April, and that’s why you couldn’t leave. And maybe I just don’t understand.”

Regulus’s hand tightens on the strap of his bag. Sirius lets impulse take control.

“And maybe you can’t leave now because you’re still trying to protect me. Maybe more than just me.”

Then Sirius waits. The air between them is taut; if either of them make a move it will break, and they’ll both be impaled on the shards. But Regulus just stands as still as stone.

“If that’s the case… then I still don’t understand,” Sirius says quietly. “But I guess I don’t need to. I think… I think one of the reasons she was able to get between us in the end was because she convinced us not to trust each other.”

Regulus flinches just slightly at the mention of their mother. Sirius almost finds himself flinching in sympathy. He's had time away from her, time that Regulus hasn't had to humanize what was once her overwhelming shadow, and he's not afraid of her in the way Regulus clearly still is. He pulls patience forward again through sheer force of will.

“So I thought I’d try trusting you with this. If you say you can’t leave, then don’t. I know it’s not cause you’re not capable of it. You’re more than capable. Scarily competent at everything you’ve ever tried to do, if I’m being honest. It’s kind of maddening,” Sirius says on a bewildered laugh. “So if you say you can’t then it’s because there’s something keeping you there, and I don’t know what it is but it must be pretty important. You’ve always been the better one at surviving, between the two of us. And from what I can tell, things are getting pretty dark where you are, so if you haven’t jumped ship yet then I’m guessing it’s because you have to stay for something.

“I don’t like it,” he admits. “I didn’t like it in April and I don’t like it now. But you’re going to do what you have to, just like you always have. I know that.”

Sirius blows out a breath. He’s said what he needs to, miraculously all of it without Regulus refusing to hear it like he’d feared.

Regulus stays frozen though, so Sirius adds one last thing while he still can.

“Just… don’t give James too hard a time about it. He knows you better than I thought, I’ll give him that. But he might not know this about you yet. He’s not used to not being able to protect everyone all the time. He’ll understand eventually.”

Regulus finally turns, meets his eyes with a look of stripped-back fear and gormless disbelief.

Sirius thinks this might be the first honest moment between them in over half a decade.

Neither of them would have it this way in an ideal world, but in this one, the Black brothers are maybe the only two people in the whole country who are ready for this war.

Only they can see through the mire of lies and twisted expectation and insufficient imaginings of the future to the realities of what people are capable of when they don’t care about each other.

Because they’ve lived it their whole lives.

When Regulus pushes through the door, Sirius lets him go. He waits in the quiet changing room a few minutes to make sure his brother has enough time to get to the castle without Sirius having to follow him, then he trudges back through the snow alone.

He’d spent most of last night lying awake staring at the bed drapes while Remus sprawled beside him in an untroubled slumber. He had used patience then, stretched it to the absolute maximum of what he was capable of in trying to decide how he should approach Regulus today.

In the end, he’d realized the most important thing was making Regulus listen to him so that he could tell him that he trusted him.

And he’d realized it was true.

He may not know a thing about his little brother anymore, and Regulus might hold that over his head for the rest of his life, and he’ll deserve it. But he does trust that their past is too muddled for him to take all the envy and spite and animosity as the complete truth. While it was certainly there, it wasn’t the only thing there. Because like it or not they were still the brothers who had grown up together sneaking into each other’s rooms, exchanging furtive looks across a dining table, begging each other to read a book that had won their adoration for a week, and flopping down on top of each other to much complaining and threatened curses.

Sirius has scars on his back that were meant for Regulus, and now it seems Regulus has the same for him. That doesn’t come without trust, and they share it like a single set of manacles clasped to each of their wrists.

So if Sirius doesn’t really know who his brother is now, then he’ll have to trust the parts of him he does know. He trusts that Regulus is still too logical to subscribe to all the blood purity bullshit. He trusts that he’s still proud enough to have thought about extricating himself from the Death Eaters. He trusts that he’s still smarter than everyone else in the room and fully capable of thinking his way through the mire of traps and dangers that await him if he stays.

And most of all, Sirius trusts that the little brother he knew, the one who used to cry when Sirius would take a punishment for him and convince Kreacher to deliver Sirius some food or salve, the one who begged him to keep his head down so he wouldn’t get hurt anymore, the one who Sirius had realized far too late was always trying to protect him in return, is still deep inside him and has a good reason for keeping him in that loveless house in the shadow of a war building like a thunderhead above him.

And he does. He trusts that boy and the new, colder, quietly vicious version that he wears like a suit of grafted armor now.

There’s still work to be done. Plenty. It’s going to suck.

Despite having won this single small battle with Regulus, Sirius certainly isn’t pleased that it means Regulus is staying in that house, especially after James had confirmed that their mother is still the mad bitch with a penchant for violence she’s always been. Madder now for turning that violence on her favorite child and the most perfect, conforming paragon of an heir she could possibly hope for.

He still needs to get Regulus out, and he will. Patience sits like an owl on his shoulder, content with the promise that he’ll reach his goal at some future point.

Sirius has made peace with that idea even if James hasn’t.

Because what James doesn’t quite understand yet is that he wasn’t the one to save Sirius.

Yes, he’d given him a new home and a new family with a visceral joy so rare and complete that it couldn’t have been anything but genuine. His generosity knows no limit, like that of his—their—parents.

But Sirius had stood on the sidelines of James’s life for six years, welcomed fully but unable to take that final step. He was just too aware of how very not his it all was. The warmth and sunlight and easy affection and humor of James’s life didn’t match up with what Sirius knew of himself, dodging shadows and scrapping with demons at every age he could remember.

Until one day, he decided it was all bullshit.

The warmth and sunlight and easy affection and humor were being given to him, willingly and whole-heartedly. And he wanted it. So why wasn’t he taking it? Because of some contrived notion that he wasn’t that kind of person?

Suddenly, the only thing keeping him from being that kind of person, the kind who lived the happy life that James promised him, was the single, plain fact that he was not living it.

It sounds unreal to Sirius now, but it really was that simple.

(Well, not quite that simple. It had taken an unholy fight with his mother and enduring a great deal of pain and one last apathetic intervention from Regulus and an extinguishing of hope so thorough it cracked him in two. And that was only the first act.)

But what Sirius knows that James doesn’t is that there will be no persuading a Regulus with his mind made up. He will not seek help until he decides he wants it. And he has to want to leave in order to do it.

It was never James who had pulled Sirius out of Grimmauld. He had given him the place to pull himself to, but Sirius had had to take the last step for himself.

So will Regulus, when the time comes. The place has been offered, and now they’ll just have to wait.

When Sirius crawls into bed with Remus that night, he sticks his cold toes under Remus’s calves and smiles to himself as Remus half groans, half growls at the intrusion. Still, he turns to face Sirius and pulls him into his chest.

“Did it go alright?” he asks in a gravelly whisper.

Sirius hadn’t told Remus much of what he had wanted to say to Regulus, just that he was going to try to talk to him and get him to listen to one crucial thing. Remus had just nodded his support and asked no questions.

Sirius loves him beyond measure.

“Yeah,” he whispers back. “I think it did.”

Remus’s response is a long, sleepy sigh and a hand stroking up his back.

“That’s good. I’m glad.”

Sirius pushes further into the negative space made by the curve of Remus’s body and tucks his nose against Remus’s neck.

His lips brush against the thin soft skin over his throat when he says, “Me too.”

They fall asleep like that, both too content to entertain dreams or insomnia or restless thoughts.

*

A dreary Tuesday night finds Regulus cooped up in the potions lab in the dungeons, the advanced one that only Slughorn’s most prized students are allowed to access after much flattery. The thin windows near to the vaulted ceiling allow glimpses of an inhospitable blowing snow that makes Regulus glad for the meter thick walls between him and the outside. The sconces are unlit but the lab glows. If Regulus weren’t so good at potions, he might worry that the strange light would lead him to mistakes.

Especially when he’s working on a Cultured Magma Corrosive.

If Slughorn knew what he was doing in here, if anyone knew, he’d likely have detentions for the rest of his tenure at Hogwarts, after they’d gotten over their shock. Hell, he’s a bit shocked by his own audacity. He’s no stranger to taking the concepts his professors provide and running with them, but this is a bit far, even for him.

The Cultured Magma Corrosive is an infamous potion developed by a school of obsessive Icelandic potioners back in the late 1800s when the technological advancements of muggle industrialization were making their way into the wizarding world. It’s illegal in almost every country on the planet on account of its improbable ability to eat through literally any substance. As far as Regulus knows, the only thing impervious to its effects are the container in which it’s brewed as a byproduct of being exposed to the potion slowly over the period of its creation. Additionally, the only way to nullify it is to submerge it in water, and even that doesn’t eradicate it, only sends it into a dormant state until such a time as it is exposed to enough oxygen to reactivate it. The original wizards who developed the potion lost multiple members of their group and multiple limbs before they somehow managed to transport it to the coast and toss it into Reykjavik Harbour, a process Regulus has trouble imagining successfully and which no book he’s read seems keen to elaborate on.

So needless to say, his activities in the lab are best conducted at night and without company, in part because he doesn’t need anyone else at risk from his sudden lack of good sense and in part because there is simply no way he would be able to explain himself. He’s willing to bet a half-hearted shrug wouldn’t fly with his would-be interrogators.

But he can’t tell them that it’s his first effort to find a remedy for the magical blight that sits in a warded puzzle box at the bottom of his trunk.

Since his conversation with Dumbledore and his subsequent grim realization of the painful commitment this war seems intent on extracting from him, Regulus has begun his hunt for a way to destroy a Horcrux. Unsurprisingly, the same general lack of information on Horcruxes is proving to be a bit of an obstacle.

Long story short, he’s found nothing. So he’s had to improvise. The most violent potion he could think of seemed like a good place to start.

His search hasn’t been helped by the fact that everyone in this whole damn castle suddenly seems to have some pressing and emotionally fraught conversation they simply must have with him.

The talk with James in the Come and Go Room was difficult but almost expected. No one can know James Potter and think that he’ll allow something he considers unjust to go unchecked. It was only a matter of time before he honed in on Regulus’s multiple sources of distress and demanded he be allowed to put an end to them. Regulus had prepared for this. It didn’t make it any easier to push James away when he looked at him like that, like Regulus was hurting him by allowing himself to be hurt. That had never happened before.

What was slightly less expected but still inevitable was that James had made the connection with the cat. The clues were stacking up at that point, but Regulus was still disappointed he wouldn’t be able to wring some stray comfort from his time with James at the Astronomy Tower anymore. He’s lucky James was too preoccupied with the idea of getting him to leave his family that he didn’t demand some explanation for the cat’s overly friendly behavior. Because Regulus really doesn’t have one. Well, not one he’ll admit to anyway.

What was completely unexpected was his talk with Sirius two nights ago.

He hadn’t spoken with his brother in nearly nine months and he’d almost gotten used to the absence of his company. Talking with Sirius was both as natural as it had always been and at the same time so foreign he’d barely said a word once Sirius got to the core of what he’d really wanted to say. His brother had never spoken to him like that before, patient and decisive and so insightful he’d half considered that maybe Sirius had mastered legilimency after all. Regulus had no choice but to hear what he had to say if only because he’d been so frozen with surprise.

Sirius has changed since he left Grimmauld, left Regulus. For the better, most certainly; he’s come into himself more fully instead of in violent fits and jerks like he had when they’d lived under the same roof and the only way he knew how to be himself was to be exactly the opposite of what their mother wanted. Regulus begrudgingly respects it. It’s remarkable that despite their caustic upbringing Sirius has managed surround himself with the people he needs to make himself into something purely original in so few months.

And yet, at the same time, he had to leave Regulus behind to do it, like he was some medieval ball and chain clasped to his ankle, rubbing skin away by the day and exhausting his every move so thoroughly that he couldn’t devote time and attention to anything more than staying upright.

So Regulus hates it too, with a simple, childish rage that can’t be quelled. Hates the clearly freeing evolution. Hates that he did it and Regulus doesn’t get to. Hates that he has the audacity to be right, to have benefitted from a decision that left Regulus so injured and vulnerable and behind.

He’s been in his head about it in the past few days. His friends have noticed that he’s withdrawn and troubled, but he can’t exactly explain to them that James Potter wants to take him home or that his brother let him know that, against all odds, he still trusts him. His friends are cut from a darker cloth than what Sirius has chosen for himself, part of the reason Regulus likes them so well in the first place. They know without pushing why Regulus hasn’t left his family like his brother and understand that what they don’t know, they’re not meant to.

Thus, his solitude. In the company of the beginnings of arguably one of the most dangerous potions in the world.

There may be a blizzard outside, but inside the lab, Regulus has removed his robes and even his tie and rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned two buttons on his shirt. The first steps in the Magma Corrosive require an open flame to reduce the ingredients, magically enhanced to reach temperatures that are not naturally produced by any normal fire. The effect is that Regulus feels like he’s closed himself into a room with the burning core of a star hovering over the worktable.

The fire he’s spent the last forty minutes cultivating is white-hot with a subtle limpid blue towards the center. Heat waves pour off of it and distort the surroundings into unstable watery shimmers. The flame even has a sound to it, a constant hollow static like Regulus can hear it eating up the oxygen in the room with one extended inhale. Long shadows stretch out around it like the dark opposite of sunrays.

Regulus has centralized his operations at another work table as far as he can get from the open flame. He doesn’t want to add some suppressant spell to it and risk disturbing the enchantments and losing all his hard work. The compromise is Regulus sweats through his shirt and deals with it.

He thinks bitterly, as he’s grating silver filings, that this was probably a much more tolerable experience in Iceland without thermally insulated walls.

His hands are coated in a shine of minuscule silver shavings, so he wipes his forehead with his wrist. He still has half the block of silver to get through, and he needs to add it tonight so he doesn’t have to leave the flame unattended. He almost sighs but stops himself when the filings flutter under his breath. The last thing he needs is to scatter them across the room because he’s tired and exasperated.

It might not matter though because Regulus almost jumps out of his skin when the lab door opens behind him.

Regulus whips around, thinking Professor Slughorn has suddenly acquired a work ethic he has never once demonstrated and decided to inventory the advanced lab, but it’s not him.

It’s James who walks straight in and closes the door behind him with no effort towards subtlety. His brow is furrowed and his eyes look distant but focused behind his glasses. Regulus almost thinks he doesn’t even notice he’s there until he starts talking.

“You know, I’ve thought about what you said.”

James walks farther into the room and it’s so odd because he hasn’t even looked at Regulus, much less asked him how he is like he usually does, though he’s clearly speaking to him. James runs a hand through his hair, and it’s not so much the idle gesture as it is a punctuation to his blunt first words.

The stark white light of the flame in the otherwise dim room illuminates James in panels and bounces off his glasses. He has his hands in his pockets and his uniform sweater on over his shirt. When he finally looks Regulus’s way across two tables, his expression is determined, almost accusatory, and Regulus finds himself a captive audience if only because he’s never seen James this close to angry.

It's enrapturing.

“I’ve thought about what you said. On Saturday,” he clarifies, as if he could be talking about anything other than the conversation that obliterated so many sacred barriers that had, up until that point, garnered the utmost respect from both of them.

Regulus is about to respond, but James cuts him off.

“It’s almost unfair, talking to you,” he says ruefully. He laughs something dry and unfunny. “You’re so prepared to estrange people and so well equipped to do it that talking to you is like choosing to start a fight with an automatic disadvantage. I can’t say anything I mean when you’re speaking so I have to surprise you like this just to get a word in.”

He shakes his head and studies Regulus. Regulus, for his part, doesn’t know if he should be offended right now, but it’s all so unexpected that he lets James go.

He’s also just a little bit curious what James wants to say that he can’t when Regulus is blocking and manipulating him at every turn.

James starts a slow meander around the work tables. In the corner, the flame glows white.

“You said a lot of things I can’t argue with, cause that’s what you do,” he concedes. “You’re great at putting up walls and obstacles that control the rate and direction of a conversation. I’ll bet my broom that you caught on to occlumency much faster than you did legilimency when you were teaching yourself.” He looks at Regulus over his glasses and whatever he sees must confirm his hypothesis because he nods to himself and goes back to watching his feet scuff along the stone floor.

“Makes sense. Your shields are magnificent. I don’t think I ever told you that,” James adds as an aside.

Between the ambush and James’s sudden proclivity for slicing honesty and the addition of a rogue compliment, Regulus feels keenly like he’s been backed into a corner without realizing it was happening.

“All that to say, there’s not a lot of hope for winning you over in an argument. And that’s my mistake.” He places the words before them with the professional air of one looking over an exam and identifying what went wrong. “I shouldn’t have expected to persuade you when I was putting you in a position where you felt like you had to defend yourself. I know better now.”

James stops across the table from Regulus and leans forward with his hands braced on the edge. His eyes are still distant and considering, but Regulus knows better than to think that means he’s not present. James is very present right now, dangerously present, and Regulus is helpless against this intense, single-minded version of the boy who’s already captured his attention and imagination for months now.

“So it’s a good thing I’m not here to persuade you now, isn’t it?”

And with that James looks up and stares directly into Regulus’s eyes. Regulus scrambles to check his shields, forgetting for a moment that James doesn’t know legilimency.

“You know what else I realized after our chat?” James asks. “I’d thought that you wouldn’t leave your family because you didn’t think you needed help. But I’ve since come to understand that’s not the case.

“You do need help. And you know it,” James says simply. He’s pushed himself off the table and begun walking slowly around the side towards Regulus. “You’re up to something, something that requires you to stay at Grimmauld and risk your parents and the Death Eaters, but it’s important enough and difficult enough that you’ll do it. And you need help. You’ve even gone so far as to seek it out. The transfiguration practices. When you were hurt as the cat," he lists. "Maybe even teaching me occlumency. I think all of that was you finding ways to get yourself the help you need for whatever it is that’s keeping you in that house.

“It’s clever, I’ll give you that,” James shrugs. He’s crossed his arms and paused at the corner of the work table, watching Regulus like he’s under review. “I’d say you’re maybe the only person I can think of who knows how to get help without exposing themselves or admitting a weakness. You do it through deals or disguises so there’s no real way to pin you with a debt. Funny how we keep coming back to that.”

Then James takes two quick steps forward. Regulus jerks backward and stumbles into a table behind him. James doesn’t give him a second to recover and instead closes the distance between them, then closes the space on either side of Regulus by planting his hands on the table.

“But I’ve told you before and I won’t say it again after this,” James says in a low, adamant voice Regulus has never heard before.

“You. Don’t. Owe. Me.”

They stare at each other, Regulus taken aback, James deadly serious.

“You can’t ask for help, and that’s fine. But you need it, so you’ll get it from me,” James bites at him. The words and the tone don’t match, like James is angry with him but telling him he cares about him at the same time. “I won’t let you let me be another person who turns their back on you because you’ve convinced them to. You can cut that out right now. I am going to help you even if I don’t know what I’m helping you to do, even if you still don’t trust me after all this time, and even if it’s on your ridiculous terms so that you feel like you’ve met some arbitrary quota that suddenly makes it all acceptable.”

James is so close and looking right down into Regulus’s face, he’s not sure he can breathe.

He rasps, “James-” but then James says, “I want to make another deal.”

Regulus can’t even ask what the hell James means by that before he’s explaining.

“I want another deal like before. I want something from you and you need something from me and I’ll phrase it in whatever goddamn convoluted way balances your scales, got it?”

He looks at Regulus expectantly. Regulus gives one weak nod.

“Good. I’m giving you my help now.”

And there’s no room for argument. Regulus has never asked for it, but here it is.

“Whatever you need, however long you need it, now, later, I don’t care. I won’t ask questions. So you can stop pushing me away because you’re afraid you’ll end up taking more than you’re due and having to pay it back later. No holds barred, nothing off the table. You have my help. Understand?”

Regulus is too shocked to do anything but nod again.

James nods back sharply.

“Alright. And in return…”

He searches Regulus’s eyes like he’s wondering if Regulus can predict what he’s going to say. Regulus is just waiting to be surprised again.

“I want you to teach me legilimency.”

It’s a strange mirror of their first deal, deeper and truer than what they’d dared ask of each other back then. The veil isn’t completely lifted, but they’ve acknowledged it’s there between them. And despite the kind of bottomless horror that Regulus experiences at the thought of James’s carte blanche offer of aid, the idea of teaching him legilimency almost offers a grounded counterpoint.

It's no small task. Legilimency is much more complicated and dangerous than occlumency, but it still pales in comparison to being able to ask James Potter for absolutely anything whenever he wants and receiving James’s in no way insignificant best effort to provide him with it. Regulus is sure that James has no idea what he’s signed himself up for, but it’s also clear he’s tried to balance it with a heavy request like learning legilimency.

Regulus also gets the sense that the offer for help isn’t entirely for Regulus’s benefit. James may have found him tonight (And how did he do that? Not many people know about the advanced lab, much less visit it.) with the intention of cornering him into a deal in the way he’d been unable to when they’d spoken on Saturday, but Regulus can still sense that edge of desperation under his firm words. James wants to think he can help Regulus with anything. He wants Regulus to come to him and to be able to solve his problems. So the deal isn’t quite as lopsided as Regulus had first suspected if, in taking it, Regulus is giving James legilimency lessons and the peace of mind that goes along with the illusion of his efficacy.

Regulus doesn’t kid himself by thinking that James can in any way ease the burden of the Horcruxes or the Death Eaters or Lord Voldemort, and he wouldn’t ask him to. That’s Regulus’s to deal with. The idea of him anywhere near it all turns his stomach.

But he’ll admit that James has been able to help him in the past.

Regulus successfully transfigured the ring.

He didn’t die when his mother took it upon herself to remove his skin.

James is better protected from a mental attack.

So maybe it’s the allure of having one thin, shimmering safety net suspended beneath him, as frail and lovingly crafted as a spiderweb, that has Regulus looking James in the eye and saying, “Deal.”

James looks momentarily stunned, and Regulus feels such a rush of affection for him then; even when he’s all business and won’t take no for an answer and aims the substantial force of his attention on Regulus, he still can’t hide his true feelings from that lovely, honest face.

It’s like it breaks a spell.

James pushes away from him and the table. Regulus hadn’t realized that it had gotten even hotter with James trapping the air between them, but his absence is a relief in more ways than one. James falls back into his loose posture and uncorrected motions and begins to struggle out of his sweater.

“Thank Merlin,” James groans to no one in particular as he tries to pry the neck hole around his glasses as his arms are trapped at the elbows. Eventually he tugs it off and his hair is atrocious as he pushes it away from his forehead.

“What the fucking hell are you even doing in here, Reg?” he says, gesturing vaguely to white flame. “I feel like I’ve walked into a dragon’s lair.”

The return of James’s normal cadence and carefree attitude settles Regulus more than he’d like and he takes a deep breath. He pushes off from the table and unsticks his shirt from his chest in an effort to disguise his shaking hands and the small lump the ring on its chain creates under the white fabric.

“I can’t really tell you,” he says and clears his throat to eradicate the wavering. “It’s-”

“Vault robbing?”

Regulus can feel his face betraying him, a slow smile creeping on to his mouth.

“Yeah.”

James gazes at him for a moment with a small knowing grin, and Regulus hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this, their teasing back-and-forth. It’s a bit different now because they’re different; James knows so many more things about Regulus and Regulus is now tied to James through the sheer stubborn force of his will.

But what a gift it is that even these new, untested versions of themselves are still capable of not taking each other too seriously.

James huffs a laugh.

“Good old vault robbery.”

Then he begins to roll up his sleeves and says, “Can I help?”

The question is stated plainly enough, but it feels weighted by the bargain they just made. Regulus decides, as a gesture of good faith, that he can put James to work.

James follows him over to his work table where Regulus cuts the bar of silver in half and hands him one piece.

“We need to file this down and measure out 64 grams.”

James accepts his piece without complaint and they start filing shoulder to shoulder.

After a while James says, “I’ve never actually been down here.”

“I should say. It’s the advanced potions lab. You have to demonstrate a noticeable aptitude to Slughorn to receive an invitation,” Regulus replies. “No surprise you didn’t know it exists.”

“Hey,” James scolds, but Regulus can hear the smile in his voice.

“Speaking of which,” he cuts in. “How did you find me here? I’m not used to being disturbed.”

“Well, if you get to keep all your secrets, I get to have some of my own,” James says primly.

Regulus stops filing for a minute to look at James who ignores him with a concerted effort. He has the expression of a five-year-old who’s been told not to spoil a birthday surprise and can’t help but let on that they know something everyone else doesn’t.

Regulus feels the smile creeping back onto his face. He really wishes wars weren’t so conducive to liars and secret mongers because James is emphatically neither.

Nevertheless, the idea of James Potter with a secret is a bit thrilling.

Regulus decides to reward him for his efforts with a careful concession.

“That’s not entirely fair,” he says quietly as he goes back to filing. “You already know a few of mine.”

James stops then, and Regulus can feel his eyes on him.

“I suppose I do,” he says after a moment. “I stand by what I said though.”

Regulus meets his eyes, and James smiles a little.

“You make an excellent cat.”

It’s such a small thing, but it somehow feels like forgiveness. Or maybe not forgiveness so much as it is acceptance. A welcoming.

James knows he’s the cat, and they’ve both recognized it now. And despite the cat’s familiarity bordering on affection followed by its traumatic, bloody arrival at Potter Manor, James isn’t taking anything the cat, anything Regulus has done as a lie of omission.

He might have even admitted to liking it.

Regulus feels his face flush and goes back to filing. He’s not sure how the color will show in the blue-white light of the open flame, but he won’t risk James catching on to it.

They finish with the silver much sooner than Regulus would have alone and turn to the task of gathering the filings and weighing them. Both of their hands glitter now and James groans when he realizes he’s going to be finding tiny shavings of silver everywhere for the next week.

“They’re going to be in my bloody bed aren’t they. And places no metal should ever end up,” he complains holding his hands out in front of him.

Regulus’s response is to reach up and wipe a silver streak down the side of his face.

James gapes at him.

Then there’s a hand ruffling through his hair and Regulus laughs and bats at his arm. He ducks around the side of the table as James lunges after him.

Regulus holds his hands out in front of him as a threat.

“Truce or I go for your glasses,” he warns.

James narrows his eyes at him but surrenders and backs away a step.

“Fine. Pretty sure I won that round anyway,” he adds, eyes on Regulus’s hair.

Regulus stops himself from reaching up to feel it, as if he could sort through the specks of silver without making it entirely worse. He finds that he actually doesn’t really mind. Not when James is looking at him like that.

Regulus raises an eyebrow when James realizes he’s been staring. He clears his throat and wipes the back of his neck, unwittingly distributing more silver along his caramel skin.

“Sorry. Your hair,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “It looks like it’s got stars in it.”

Regulus kind of wants to punch James in the throat for being so obliviously cute. If he were a braver person he would tell him that the silver lining his face looks like celestial warpaint, that he should wear it this casually all the time and he could summon armies to himself with a glance.

Well. Maybe it’s just Regulus who feels compelled to commit atrocities in his honor.

How embarrassing.

Instead he rolls his eyes and says, “And whose fault is that?”

“I have no regrets.”

Regulus levitates the silver filings into the crucible and lets exactly 90 seconds pass before he slashes his wand and the flame cuts out completely, plunging the room into sudden darkness and silence.

“Woah,” Regulus hears from his left. “A little warning next time.”

Regulus feels himself smiling.

“Afraid of the dark, James?”

“No.” He senses James approaching his side, close enough that their sleeves brush and the heat from him replaces the sudden absence from the flame. “Just don’t want to lose you and trip over a mountain of silver shavings that I’ll be finding for the rest of my life.”

If Regulus’s brain latches on to the ‘don’t want to lose you’ portion of things, it’s entirely not his fault.

“It should be done for now,” Regulus mutters. “It’ll have to sit for at least a week before I can keep working on it.”

He ignites a sconce on the wall so that there’s just enough light for him to clean up and store ingredients and the still smoldering crucible safely away. He feels James’s eyes on him the whole time.

When he turns back to him, they just stand there and look at each other for a minute, their shirts dampened with sweat and shimmering silver gracing their features. Regulus imagines they’d look quite ethereal to some outsider. James certainly does.

“I suppose I’ll see you later, then,” James says, suddenly uncertain.

Regulus doesn’t especially like uncertainty on James so he corrects it.

“At the Come and Go Room? Maybe Thursday?”

James brightens at that like he’d momentarily forgotten the other half of their deal.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.”

But James just stands there with that little grin, bouncing on his toes. Regulus sighs and collects his bag and his robes. Then he grabs James’s sweater and thrusts it at his chest.

“Come on. If anyone finds you in here they’ll accuse you of cheating on your last Potions exam.”

James barks a laugh.

“You do know I’m not actually bad at potions, right?”

“James, your own father is unimpressed with your potions work, and he strikes me as a rather generous individual.”

James laughs again as they close the door, longer and louder.

“Just because he was impressed with you doesn’t mean I’m not good. It’s relative and frankly, it’s rather cruel to set yourself up as the point of comparison.”

“As a cat, James. I was better than you at potions as a cat.”

“I don’t like this conversation.”

“Shame, I’m quite enjoying myself.”

James knocks into his shoulder as they walk side by side down the abandoned hall, snow blowing in the night beyond the windows.

Chapter Text

Regulus is self-aware enough to admit that he’s a bit nervous for his first legilimency lesson with James.

In the moment he’d agreed, he’d been all tangled up trying to balance the scales of what James was offering and what he was asking for, not to mention the rather unfair distraction of James up close with fire in his eyes. If their deal was legally binding, he would petition the judge that he was not in his right mind when it was made.

Now, however, the reasons why this is a disaster in the making seem to stack up in front of Regulus in a teetering tower of poor judgement.

Consider first that legilimency is a terribly tricky type of magic. If it were up to Regulus, James would spend at least another year solidifying his occlumency, prodigious of not, before he ventured into legilimency.

Not only is it important to have the kind of foundational skills provided by mastery of a good shield but legilimens are also more likely to make themselves targets of other legilimens. They can be sensed, and Regulus knows well that when you find yourself holding a sword, other people with swords see you as someone to attack.

Or someone to use. Regulus hasn’t forgotten Dumbledore’s interest in his own ability to provide leverage, along with the careful manipulation he’d devised to try to trick Regulus into begging for his aid. He has no real way of keeping James from Dumbledore’s grasp, what with his foolish notions of grandeur about the war and the Order of the Phoenix. But at this point, leaving him with just occlumency feels like sending him into a massacre unarmed. His only shot is to teach him as best he can in what little time they have and impress upon him the importance of keeping it secret.

Then there’s the other side of things, namely that the only person for James to practice legilimency on is Regulus. Regulus doesn’t particularly enjoy people in his head; the thought of Voldemort standing on the shore overlooking his thoughts on Halloween night still makes him shudder sometimes, half from the horror that he’d been in Regulus’s head at all, half because Regulus had let him in. He hadn’t had a choice, but there would likely come a time when he wouldn’t have a choice again. It was an unfortunate precedent.

James, of course, was not Lord Voldemort. Far from it. The one moment James had stood at the outskirts of his shields before Christmas hadn’t been intrusive or even unwelcome. James’s consciousness, what little of it he could feel through his own heavily reinforced sand battlements, had possessed a quality of being helplessly overjoyed, awed, alongside something that felt like gratitude.

He had no doubt James would treat his mind with the utmost courtesy, as he did his person.

However.

However.

Regulus, for his part, thought he was smart enough to know that anyone with as many secrets as him has no business teaching fucking mind reading to another person.

Especially when that person is the subject of more than one embarrassingly tender and explicitly lustful fantasy.

The whole situation kind of makes Regulus want to lobotomize himself before he arrives at the Come and Go Room, which gives him approximately four minutes to conveniently trip and impale his brain on an easily accessible sharp object. There aren’t many counterarguments to Sorry, there’s a knitting needle in my head, not real conducive to legilimency I’m afraid.

There also aren’t many easily accessible sharp objects lying around the seventh floor corridor.

Regulus is convinced this school hates him sometimes.

He barely has to think before the door to the Come and Go Room starts pushing itself out of the stone, and he takes one last breath to compose himself.

He’ll just arrange his thoughts like he did for Voldemort, sequester anything that might hint of his feelings for James and put other ideas forward. If it worked on the Dark Lord, it’ll work on James Potter.

Because it has to.

Because Regulus won’t let it not.

He can’t even get past the first few seconds of imagining how James’s face would change when he realizes Regulus’s feelings for him. How he’d be surprised, then there’d be a moment where he scrambles for the right words to let him down gently that he wouldn’t be able to hide because his face shows everything, then he’d say “Regulus…” in a soft, pitying tone reserved for small children and injured animals.

He'd explain how they’ve become friends, sure, but he isn’t really looking for something more than that. He wouldn’t have to say that he just isn’t looking for something like that with Regulus. And then maybe he’d try to backtrack a bit by saying they should certainly remain friends, though, this doesn’t have to change anything. But it would because he’d turn distant and polite and he’d still be funny and charming but in the way he is for everyone, not the painfully bared, achingly gentle, patient, intelligent, playful, appreciative person he is for Regulus.

That’s his, and what a stupid way to lose it if he can’t keep his messy mind in order for an hour or two while he shows someone else how to peruse it.

Regulus shakes his head to clear that nightmare away as the door finishes forming and Regulus steps through.

And stops.

James is already there, freshly showered from a frigid Quidditch practice and wearing a formfitting maroon sweater. But that (shockingly) is not what pauses Regulus in his tracks.

Because apparently the Come and Go Room has taken it upon itself to do some redecorating since their last visit.

The fireplace remains, warming the room with orange light and delicious heat, but the rug is new, larger and deeper than the other one. The books have updated to include a few more titles on legilimency.

Oh, and the chairs are gone.

Replaced with a single homey sofa that, in Regulus’s opinion, is not in any way a fair trade.

James is leaned back on the sofa with his hands laced behind his head and his long legs stretched out towards the fire. He’s even taken his shoes off so that his socked feet (socks with pine trees on them, Merlin kill him now) dig into the shag of the new rug.

Regulus closes the door none too gently. Partly because there’s a slurry of chemicals running through him that feels like rage but most definitely is not. Partly because he needs to break this picture-perfect image in front of him before he ruins it some other way. And partly because the Room is a meddling menace and he’s not especially inclined to be kind to it right now.

Jame’s head turns in his direction at the sound, and he lights up.

“Regulus!” He pushes himself to sit up on the sofa. “Check out the upgrade.”

Regulus can only manage a constricted “Mmm” of acknowledgement as he steps towards James. James looks up at him from the sofa, gilded and smiling faintly like effusively content is just his natural state. Hell, maybe it is.

Regulus clears his throat and ignores how close James’s fingers are to brushing his thigh where they dangle over the arm of the couch.

“Bit odd that the Room thought you needed a sofa.”

James chuckles and if Regulus isn’t mistaken, it sounds a bit nervous.

He runs a hand through his hair and says, “Yeah, no clue what that’s about. Maybe it knows about the proximity thing?”

Regulus is surprised yet again by how closely James seems to listen to him. He’d told him months and months ago about how the success of legilimency relies on acquaintance, eye contact, and proximity, but he didn’t expect him to remember. At that point he’d been semi convinced that James was a sort of witless jock brand that his brother would be drawn to.

Sometimes, very rarely, Regulus enjoys being wrong.

He considers the space on the couch, what little of it there is, and the way James is looking up at him expectantly and decides he just can’t deal with that tonight.

“Maybe we ought to begin standing up.”

James looks puzzled at that but doesn’t complain as he stands and positions himself opposite Regulus next to the hearth.

He swings his hands back and forth to clasp in front of him and says, “Okay. So- how do we start?”

“We start by you acknowledging how very dangerous this is for you,” Regulus says, folding his arms. James seems to sense Regulus’s severity and stills himself. “I mean it James. Much more so than occlumency, legilimency will expose you in multiple, critical ways. So I need you to understand what you’re getting into.”

James locks eyes with him and nods him on.

“Trained legilimens will be able to sense that you’re a legilimens as well if you’re not careful. Some legilimens like to broadcast their power as a sort of warning, while others prefer to hide their skill, keep out of sight.” Regulus takes one step closer to James. “You always hide, James. Always.”

He expects a rebuttal, perfectly aware that James Potter has never hidden from a single thing in his life. Never had to.

But James just nods again and says, “Alright.”

A bit surprised, Regulus continues.

“Legilimency also requires you to detach a portion of yourself. You’re casting your consciousness out to other minds, only a piece of it, but every piece is crucial. Your ability to pay attention to your surroundings will be limited while you probe someone else because you’ll have to split your focus. You lose sight of one piece, and you risk losing it for good. Either your body or your mind. You need both.”

James looks concerned but determined, which is good enough for Regulus to keep going.

“This means that your environment is key when you’re performing legilimency. You have to be in a situation where you can put your body on the back burner and let it operate on second nature while you work on your subject mentally. So use it sparingly and carefully.

“Then there’s the issue of actually being in someone else’s head.”

James looks a little less sure about that.

“This is another form of exposure. The piece of you that you send as a probe is still a piece of you. In a way it’s more dangerous than being on the receiving end of a legilimency attack because you’re putting yourself in a foreign location at a distinct disadvantage to the subject whose thoughts you’re attempting to infiltrate.

“If a hostile legilimens discovers you attempting to breach their shields or within their mind they could choose to do a few things, depending on their skill and desire. They could simply kick you out and remove themselves from your proximity. Or they could latch on to that piece of self you sent into their mind and destroy it.”

“What does that mean?” James asks. He holds his elbows across himself a bit tighter. “What would happen to a legilimens if their probe is caught and destroyed?”

“I’m not entirely sure, to be honest,” Regulus admits. “For one thing, it would be excruciating. That’s portions of your mind that are being forcefully stamped out by another. I imagine there might also be some permanent effects depending on what pieces of yourself you lose.”

James considers this with a grimace.

Regulus doesn’t especially enjoy making him uncomfortable, but it’s better that he takes this seriously now.

“The worst thing that could happen if a legilimens discovers you in their mind is follow you back to your own and slip right in past your shields.”

This troubles James.

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound great.”

“It’s not,” Regulus deadpans. “That’s all your defenses bypassed in an instant and a rather jarring reversal of roles when you’re the one who’s supposed to be in their head. You likely won’t have time to gather yourself before they could do some real damage.

“All that to say, you can’t let anyone know you’re there.”

“Is it just me, or does this sound like something I’m going to be really bad at?”

“Oh dear, have we finally discovered something James Potter doesn’t immediately excel at?” Regulus muses. “I’ll have to add it to the list under potions.”

“I told you-”

“It’s not going to come as naturally to you as occlumency, James. I’m almost certain of that,” Regulus cuts him of, shifting his weight to his hip. “The good news is you’re learning this in a controlled environment with someone who isn’t going to scramble your brain for trying to get into theirs.”

“I’ll say,” James says with a laugh. “It's all been pretty dark till now.”

Regulus narrows his eyes.

“You know my mother is a legilimens, James?”

“I mean, I feel like I did know but I somehow just forgot?”

“Well don’t,” Regulus snaps. “These are the kinds of people who cultivate legilimency. It’s a dark topic because it’s practically dark magic. You don’t try to break into someone’s mind if you’re friends. You do it because they have something you want and you’re going to take it whether they let you or not.”

James is shaking his head a bit at that, but Regulus can’t let him go around thinking this is just another hobby.

He steps in close to James and says, “I’ll remind you my mother is a legilimens as many times as I need to because there’s an entire echelon of people like her and worse who you’re going to be introducing yourself to as a potential target and a potential threat if you go through with this, James. So I want you to really think hard about if this is something you want. Something you’re ready for.”

“But you’re there,” James says.

“What?”

“You’re there too,” he repeats. He meets Regulus’s step with one of his own. “That echelon of people who practice legilimency. You’re one of them. You’re a legilimens. And I know you’re not like them or like your mother. So there must be some people who don’t use it to harm others. And if there’s not then there’s still you.”

James shrugs.

“That’s good enough for me.”

Regulus just gapes at him.

“James, are you mad?”

“No, actually I’m feeling quite sensible right now.”

“You can’t just take up legilimency because I’ve done it. I am in no way the poster child for legilimens. They’re really a dark bunch-”

“Yes, but they don’t have to be,” James interrupts. “Like I said, you’re not. So I don’t have to be either.”

James watches Regulus for a minute while he processes his words.

Then he says, “Do you regret it? Teaching yourself legilimency? If it’s put you in the company of people who would use it to hurt you or others?”

Regulus has never really thought about it. There are so many things in his life to regret and so many things that aren’t worth regretting that he spends little time ruminating on something like his self-taught legilimency. He thinks about the Ministry guard at the October Death Eater meeting. He thinks about his family.

It’s done, is what it is. For better or worse.

“No…” he says slowly. “I don’t.”

James nods like he knew that was the answer, but Regulus cuts him off before he can speak.

“But only because it feels like a weapon I chose to arm myself with.” Regulus shakes his head as he tries to think of a way to explain this. “I was always going to be a part of this world, James. There was never any option that I would be breathing the same air as legilimens and the people who would like to use them. For me, it was a matter of either ignoring the problem and becoming a hapless puppet to their whims or taking it up and wielding it as a threat against them.”

He doesn’t mention that he’s months away from becoming a puppet anyway, in a twisted mirror opposite of the way he had hoped to avoid it in the first place.

“You’re not in that world, James. You don’t have to be, so a lack of regret from me may not be so useful to you.”

James does him the courtesy of mulling over his words for a few moments. Regulus lets the silence stretch between them as James thinks. He watches James from under his eyelashes, tries to give him his room while powerless to resist the opportunity to see how his face changes with his thoughts.

Regulus decides he looks more like his mother in this state, is a bit thrilled he has the context to make that comparison at all.

But then James breaks the silence and says, “I understand what you’re saying. But it doesn’t change anything for me. If anything, it makes me want to do it more.”

Regulus stares at him.

James shakes his head as a small, lopsided grin shapes his lips.

“You said you have no choice but to be there with those people, Reg. I’m not going to just leave you alone.”

Regulus blinks a few times and takes a deep breath, letting his lungs expand to push a surge of wild, snarling longing back down into his stomach.

“Alright. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. But I appreciate you being so careful about it.”

“Yeah? Well, you won’t appreciate me in about half an hour.”

James huffs a laugh, the tension gone out of the air again.

“It’s that bad, is it?”

“Think of it as joining a troupe of acrobats when you can’t even touch your toes.”

“Oh, fuck me.”

“Precisely.”

James cards his fingers through his hair, smile lingering on his face.

“So, how do you even begin getting from one mind to another then?”

Regulus has considered how to approach this over the last two days. If he does this wrong, he could really fuck James up, and he has no intention of doing that. He likes him very much just the way he is. So the answer is baby steps.

“If you remember our last occlumency lesson before the holidays,” Regulus starts. James brightens at that, like the memory runs electricity through him as it does for Regulus. He can still feel James’s arms looped around his waist and the weight of his head against his stomach if he thinks hard about it. “I tried a sort of piggy back legilimency with you, in which I was able to take a piece of you that you’d ostensibly be able to send out on your own eventually and bring it with me. I think we start by doing that again, and you get the feel for how to enter someone else’s mind without hurting them or going too deep first. Then later we can worry about you getting there on your own.”

James seems thrilled with that idea.

“Does that mean I get to see your shields again?”

“I imagine you’ll be seeing a great deal of my shields in the coming weeks.”

James just ducks his head and smiles at his feet. It’s such an unexpected reaction to being invited to encounter someone’s self-imposed mental barriers that Regulus just looks at him with a kind of hopeless bafflement. They’re just shields, but to each his own, Regulus supposes.

“Are you ready, James?”

James’s head snaps up and he nods once quickly.

“Yeah. Yup, I’m ready.” He shakes his hands out like he’s about to play a Quidditch match.

“Proximity?” Regulus asks.

“Done.”

“Acquaintance?”

“Very much so,” James grins.

Regulus’s cheeks heat.

“Eye contact?”

James’s eyes find Regulus’s across the space between them, and it suddenly feels much less.

“Engaged,” he responds.

“Good,” Regulus says. “Hold on, then.”

*

James is prepared for the visceral tugging and head over heels tumbling sensation this time and bears it with a bit more grace, he hopes.

He’s vaguely aware of the fire warming his left side disproportionately and the luxurious shag carpet beneath his socked feet. His hands tucked casually in his pockets. Regulus’s stormy eyes locked on his.

But all that is secondary to the wandering piece of his mind that has ended up outside Regulus’s shields again. He was certainly right when he warned James that he wouldn’t have as much control of himself.

The place James finds himself is just like he remembers—a vivid memory of awe and bliss—and also not at all.

The imposing wall of sand still reaches into a sort of ether above it, practically disappearing in the soaring heights. James can still hear the wax and wane of something invoking waves on the shore somewhere out of sight, and whatever sense of feeling this piece of his consciousness possesses notes the cool stickiness of rich, salted sea air. But the sun he’d squinted towards last time is gone; instead, the sand walls glitter blue and silver in a kind of sourceless moonlight.

James finds himself stepping up to the wall carefully. Something about the darkness is drawing out a caution and respect for the serenity of the scene that the sunlight didn’t require. He’ll have to ask Regulus what causes changes to the shields and their constructed surroundings when he’s more coherent.

Before James can even touch the wall, the sand begins to cave inwards. A waterfall of grains slide to the ground as a cavity forms and morphs into a tunnel, layers sloughed away. James waits, listening to the hiss of displaced sand as the tunnel carves deeper and deeper, a thinning line of black receding farther into the wall than James thought it could extend. He only knows when it’s finished forming not because he can see to the other side but because the hissing stops.

After a moment of utter silence, James takes a breath and steps in.

He walks slowly, each step deliberate and measured in the narrow tunnel and marvels to himself that this is Regulus, and Regulus is guiding him through his own shields. The trust is staggering, and James feels the weight of its responsibility keenly, one he imagines like the satisfying burn and pull of the muscles in his arms and back if he were to pick Regulus up and carry him. The same kind of trust exercise.

His shoulder scrapes one wall and more grains fall away. James shakes the image of Regulus in his arms out of his head.

The inside of the tunnel is cooler and damper than the outside, and James takes a moment to marvel at the verisimilitude of Regulus’s shields, as if these layers of sand hidden beneath the surface avoided the warming effects of the day. At some point he can no longer see, or whatever the incorporeal equivalent of that is. He allows the fingers of his right hand to brush lightly along the wall to guide him through.

He stumbles upon the exit abruptly, his fingers losing purchase of the sand, and James has to readjust to what he can now faintly see.

He stands on a kind of shoreline, as best he can describe it. At his feet and stretching out as far as he can see are Regulus’s thoughts—his mind. Behind him, the shield stands as a looming barrier and extends to his right and left. In theory, James supposes it would wrap around this whole vast sea, but it doesn't even begin to hint at a curve.

The enormity of it astounds him. That Regulus can house, can even manage to contain, an entire ocean within himself is both improbable and in a way inevitable. Like how does anyone live with the depth and currents, the tides and whirlpools and doldrums and hurricanes that come with having an ocean for a mind?

Then again, how could Regulus not? It’s the only natural thing James can think of that captures the interwoven complexity and the possibility of being overwhelmed that characterizes Regulus’s mind. The sublime too, a beauty so staggering it spills over into frightening.

Not that James is frightened by him. Not at all. Speechless maybe, as he watches the smooth roll and reach of thin waves and follows them out all the way to their black edge that meets the indiscernible barrier of the night sky in a fool’s horizon. It’s all so dark it’s like he can feel his consciousness pushing and reaching for some stimulus to latch on to, just to get its bearings.

James has to rally some awareness of his body when he registers Regulus saying something in the real world.

“You’re past my shields now, so this is most often where you’ll end up when trying to access someone’s mind,” Regulus says, his voice somewhat muffled but still coherent to James. “The mind is organized differently for each person but will almost always proceed logically through layers. More immediate thoughts are shallow and easier to access. Complex thoughts, older ones and memories, will require you to dive deeper. The hardest to find will be things almost forgotten or intentionally hidden.”

“Like secrets?” James manages to ask.

“Like secrets,” Regulus agrees. “I only want you to step into my most shallow thoughts now. Carefully or it will cause pain.”

“Pain?” James squawks, surprised enough that he almost jolts himself back into his own body.

“Discomfort,” Regulus amends.

“Reg, is this going to hurt you?”

He catches Regulus rolling his eyes.

“No, not if you do as I told you and proceed carefully.”

James watches him for a minute, but he seems genuine enough, so James prepares himself.

“Will I be able to tell what you’re thinking then? In your shallow thoughts?”

“You’re welcome to try. Just step in, test it out, then pick something to focus on and give yourself time to adjust to it. It’ll be a bit like putting on your glasses I imagine. But it might take time to clarify.”

James sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly. Okay. It’s just stepping into Regulus’s thoughts. In Regulus’s head. This whole thing is so mad he’s shocked he hasn’t called it all off just so he can find out if Regulus finds this all as surreal as he does. From the impatient look on his face, James guesses the answer is no.

He recenters himself on the night beach and shuffles forward to the sea of Regulus’s mind. A wave pushes up towards him and recedes just before touching.

James shuffles forward again and the next wave engulfs his feet up to his ankles.

He immediately shivers. The feeling of Regulus’s thoughts brushing up against him is tingling like the bite of cold water, and there are already so many things he could pick out, lightning quick flashes of images that he can’t parse but that are maybe shaped like people and things and places. They’re all right there and they’re Regulus’s but they’re also his because Regulus is letting him have them. He’s giving them to him.

That idea emboldens James and he steps forward again. Regulus’s consciousness yields easily to him and the next wave leaves James with sparks all the way up past his knees. The images become clearer, but it’s still not enough.

He wades deeper until the probe of self James sent into Regulus’s mind prickles with awareness. Regulus’s thoughts pool and eddy around him, and he watches them for a moment and how the inky blackness seems to swallow him up.

It would be very easy to get lost in here, James thinks. He imagines walking farther and farther until his head sinks under the surface. Maybe he’d step off some hidden ledge and plummet into a bottomless trench, the kind James isn’t sure exists but somehow still knows must reside somewhere in Regulus’s mind. It would get darker, beyond anything James has experienced or dreamt of, and maybe it would never end. Maybe James would just start descending and never stop until the pressure crushes him and a piece of him remains with Regulus always, keeping him company in the dark.

It's a morbid thought, but James finds he doesn’t mind it so much. There’s a certain peace to the acceptance. James thinks that maybe feeling how close he could be to one of those trenches at any moment and welcoming it as a given part of him is one of the many steps to embracing who Regulus is as a person. It’s a challenge James is eager to take on.

But he tries not to get too far ahead of himself. There are no trenches to navigate right now. Just plenty of thoughts.

James decides, fuck it, and dips his cupped hands into Regulus’s consciousness. When he pulls them away, he can see and even feel a more or less single, unified idea cradled in his palms.

It’s not complete because no thought ever is, and spills off in some places, leading to other thoughts that James can’t hold with it. But as he stands there with this one, it begins to resolve, filling in outlines and shadows into discernible things.

James watches as the thought solidifies and then all of a sudden he’s looking into a reflection of an owl.

He blinks and looks again.

It’s a rather large owl, feathered a speckled brown and perhaps overfed.

The longer he watches, the more he understands.

The owl is not Regulus’s but he knows it.

They’re in the owlery, maybe this morning.

The owl’s feathers are soft and its quiet hoot is curious, wondering where its next meal will come from.

Its name is Doppel.

James emits a shocked laugh and lets the thought fall from his hands back into the lapping of Regulus’s consciousness. He can see his thoughts all around him now, bobbing up and submerging again with the patterns of his thinking, and it’s magnificent just how dynamic the mind can be, laid out like this.

He can feel Regulus opening the passage in the shield behind him once more and suspects that’s his cue to leave so they can talk about what just happened, but James can’t resist running his fingers through Regulus’s consciousness one last time.

It’s silky smooth and thrillingly cold and he doesn’t know if it will work but he does his best to send back some notion of his own joy in this moment. He channels the intention through this small piece of himself Regulus has graciously allowed in his mind where he connects with Regulus’s thoughts and hopes some bit of it gets through.

Just before he withdraws his hand, the current around his fingers emits a dull turquoise glow.

“What…” James starts to wonder, but then he feels himself pushed back towards the tunnel in Regulus’s shield. He wants to wade into his thoughts again, stick his hand in and see if that glow reappears, but a wind has cropped up driving him towards the exit and he figures he’d better not push his luck.

James casts one last look at the gently rolling ocean of Regulus’s mind and the pitch black night above it before reluctantly making the trek back to the other end of his shields. A mass of sand caves in the tunnel the moment he’s out, and James allows himself to fall back into his body.

The landing comes like a thud, and he finds himself stumbling back a step and almost tripping onto the carpet before he feels Regulus’s iron grip around his forearm, keeping him steady. He grabs Regulus’s wrist in return and meets his eyes, exchanging a silent Alright? Alright. with him. It’s sends a small zip of warmth through him that he can read Regulus’s expressions as easily as he once could the cat’s.

“How was that?” Regulus asks after a moment.

“Bloody brilliant,” James breathes.

He’s not entirely sure he’s processed the whole experience, but he already knows he’ll never encounter anything like this ever again. It’s like an entire world has been opened up to him, a world Regulus has sculpted into himself, intentionally or not. James doesn’t know how welcome an explorer he is in this domain, but he feels the aching need to build a boat, learn to sail, and set out on the seas of Regulus’s mind. Merciful or tumultuous, James will take any condition so long as he’s the one who gets to see it. Or better yet, maybe he’d learn to swim, to dive, to drown in those depths. How would it feel to have Regulus’s thoughts and memories and secrets be what flooded his lungs and choked in his throat? Would he be thinking of James as he swallowed him whole?

James only realizes he’s still holding on to Regulus when Regulus tries to let go of his arm but can’t due to his grip on his wrist. Still, James isn’t so inclined to let go. Instead he pulls him a step closer, watches the surprise register in Regulus’s eyes.

“There was an owl,” James says. “You know it. Its name is Doppel.”

At this, Regulus’s mouth curves into a secretive smile.

“Yeah, he’s Barty’s,” Regulus nods. “And he’s actually-”

“Spoiled rotten,” James finishes for him.

“Quite,” Regulus agrees through his smile.

And what a treasure that is, to be able to share secrets with Regulus Black. James feels entirely individual at this moment, like he’s been selected, no, put on earth just to pick up and appreciate the little things Regulus relinquishes to him.

“Did you find-” Regulus starts but James can’t help interjecting.

“What happened at the end there?”

Regulus’s brow furrows.

“What do you mean? What happened?”

James finally (reluctantly) lets go of Regulus’s wrist to brush a hand through his hair.

“I reached for your consciousness again, not to seek out any particular thought. Just to feel it. And it lit up. It’s like it responded to me.”

Regulus shakes his head a little, still confused.

“Responded to you? I’m not sure. The only way I can think of it responding to your presence would be if I tried to get you out or trap you, and this doesn’t sound like that.”

“No, it wasn’t,” James agrees. He knows the wall of deliberate wind that means Regulus is kicking him out, and he’s not sure what it would feel like if Regulus tried to trap him, but he’s certain it would be as sudden and final as the snap of a lion’s jaws. There would be no mistaking it.

“Perhaps it was an emotion,” Regulus suggests. James raises his eyes to where Regulus has turned slightly towards the fire. He looks pensive like he always did in the Transfiguration classroom, and the orange light emphasizes his elegance and the visible workings of his mind, like something out of antiquity.

James is finding it harder and harder to come up with reasons why he shouldn’t just say all of this to Regulus. It feels far too important to keep to himself.

“I haven’t really encountered emotions when I’ve performed legilimency on others because there’s usually not enough time or focus to spare for the way the mind reacts to an intruder, much less one who's been allowed in,” Regulus muses. James kind of loves when he thinks out loud like this, like James has earned the right to witness his remarkable logic. “Legilimency has always been a rather solitary craft, so there’s not much written about how two willing legilimens respond to each other. But it would make sense if it were an emotion, I suppose. Something that suffuses the more defined thoughts and memories.”

He ends with a shrug that in no way serves to downplay how competent he is.

“Huh” is all James really has to offer in return.

Regulus grins a little and turns back towards him.

“Could you tell what emotion it was?”

“No, I didn’t hang around long enough,” James admits. “But I bet I could. I probably just need time to acclimate to it, like with the thoughts. I could try again,” he blurts, then thinks better of it. “I mean, would you let me give it another go?”

Regulus studies him, and James is glad he learned how to hold still under this gaze long ago. It’s either that or go mad with it, and he savors the feeling of Regulus’s eyes on him too dearly to allow himself to break.

“Fine. Another try,” Regulus concedes. 

James grins.

This time, James strides through the tunnel Regulus carves for him in his shields with ease. He finds himself eager to see the breathtaking darkness of the ocean in the night once again, almost as eager as he is to touch Regulus’s consciousness once more and try to coax that same glow from it.

He stops himself before he goes charging into the shallows, remembering what Regulus said about pain. No way is he going to make this hurt him. It has to be courteous, gentle, like Regulus deserves. James steps lightly into the shallows and keeps an eye on where they meet his own probe of consciousness.

Nothing yet.

He goes a bit deeper and deeper still until he’s about waist-deep like before. Then he reaches out and places one flat palm on the undulating surface of Regulus’s thoughts.

At first there’s nothing. But James has learned he can be patient. Regulus has taught him in multiple forms across many months that he is capable of patience and amply rewarded for it every time.

He waits.

Regulus’s thoughts push and pull at him, an incessant prodding at his presence.

Then James moves his hand, scooping his fingers through the topmost layer and watches with wonder as the pitch black of Regulus’s consciousness illuminates in a trail behind the motion of his hand.

He moves it again and watches as the thoughts go from ineffable to a bright, glowing aqua and back again in a fleeting crescendo, decrescendo. It dances and swirls like particles, like blue stardust for only a moment until James swipes his hand through again and reignites it. He dips his whole arm and sees it lit up by a sort of bioluminescence and then his whole self as he sways into the current of Regulus’s thoughts.

The longer he looks around, the more he sees it. The way the thoughts move against James and against each other, each slide of friction causes a teal spark of radiance in its wake until James spins in a circle and it feels like the entire black ocean has been shot through with morphing ribbons of soft cobalt light emanating from where he stands in the shallows.

It’s confounding how James could possibly be the source of all this beauty in Regulus’s mind; he almost feels as if he’s intruding on it. But it does make sense in the context of Regulus’s emotions theory. James supposes that if a single thought can be separated from a consciousness and others can be sought out at deeper depths, then emotions must be much harder to discern. They cloud everything, make their way into each thought and memory they belong to and some they don’t. The shifting, glowing blue seems to demand some constant, low level of attention from Regulus’s mind, beginning with where this small piece of James has catalyzed it.

Which then begs the question, what emotion could it possibly be?

James tries to refocus, shelf his desire to lose himself in the inexplicable reverence of the glowing night sea and actually pick out indicators that might point towards what Regulus is feeling.

He allows his eyes to relax and takes in the spectacle as a whole. His fingers trace the surface of Regulus’s thoughts, and the blue light clings to their tips and follows behind before fading.

It’s a quiet emotion, James thinks, but simultaneously powerful. It would have to be to appear as something as beautiful as this and overtake a whole ocean in the process. But it’s undemanding in its presence. It requires very little to sustain it and might just go on forever if James only lets it.

At the same time it’s hungry. The way the light trails James’s motions and lingers on his hands before winking out suggests some longing that doesn’t abide its own hope. It’s almost a kind of grief, how it simultaneously reaches and dies while reaching over and over again.

But James can’t get over its beauty. How can something so content in its own melancholy produce shades of greens and blues James has never seen before, glittering like the streaked remnants of stars around him? What could his presence possibly evoke that can’t help but grieve and rejoice in the same cycle of illumination and suppression?

It makes absolutely no sense.

Then… it maybe makes a little sense.

James thinks he might be holding his breath as he feels his heart stutter through the next few beats. Because no, that’s absolutely not it and it can’t possibly be what James thinks, what he hopes more than he’s ever hoped for something in his life.

But that right there—that pattern of hope and denial of hope and, nevertheless, hope again—is just another sliver of proof because that’s exactly what’s happening in Regulus’s mind right now with the blue glow flashing and fading only to creep back.

And if it’s happening to James…

… and James feels how he feels about Regulus…

… and it’s also happening to Regulus when James is present in his mind…

… then that means…

James’s heart kicks into overdrive the second he thinks Regulus figures it out for himself.

His consciousness retreats, sucked away from the shore without warning like the sudden withdraw of a tide before a tsunami. But instead of a great wave, James feels himself blasted back by an implacable wind. He hardly even gets to lament the loss of Regulus’s consciousness around him and the otherworldly beauty of his feelings—his feelings for James—before he’s being unceremoniously shunted back into his own body in the Come and Go Room.

There’s no one to catch him this time, and he falls on his ass, with his hands dug into the shag carpet. James readjusts his glasses in time to see Regulus looking at him with an expression of absolute horror.

They stare at each other.

Then Regulus says, barely above a whisper, “What did you see?”

James just shakes his head minutely, mouth open. There are no words to describe what he just witnessed. To try would be to disrespect it.

But Regulus asks again, “James, what did you see?”

His normally sharp voice quivers just slightly on the last word.

James tries, he really does, but all he can get out is “I saw…” before he’s out of words again.

That seems to be enough for Regulus, though, and truthfully isn’t that the only thing to say? James saw. He did. He stood there in Regulus’s mind and saw and wondered and pondered and then he saw.

James saw, and now he knows.

Merlin, does he know.

But Regulus covers his face with his hands and breathes out a weak “Fucking hell,” and James knows him well enough now to see his trajectory change for the door.

Because he’s going to cut his losses and run away.

Because he’s a survivor and he thinks he’s just taken a lethal blow. No way is he going to wait around to bleed out before the predator.

But James is not and never has been the predator. He thinks Regulus knows this, and he just needs to remind him again.

He wants nothing from Regulus that he doesn’t want to give him. No debts, no price, just like he promised.

But now that there’s the tiniest, most batshit crazy slim possibility Regulus might, possibly, just maybe want the same thing as James…

Well.

James isn’t known for respecting the odds.

He scrambles up from the floor just as Regulus makes his move to pass by him while he’s down.

“Regulus, wait!”

He steps in his way and holds up his hands.

“James, let me by,” Regulus says. His voice is tight, and he won’t look him in the eye.

“No, just wait a minute.”

“I mean it, James.” He looks up just long enough for James to see the cornered animal again. He tries to step around him again, but James blocks his path.

“Regulus, please.” He does the only thing he can think of and takes Regulus’s cool hand into his. Regulus flinches back but doesn’t pull his hand away and James sees again, that reaching and retreating that has him in a deadlock just like the bioluminescence in his mind, too torn up with wanting and denying himself any relief to break the cycle.

But that’s okay.

Because James saw and he knows now and he doesn’t mind breaking it for him.

“Regulus…” James trails off trying to think of some way to convince Regulus that he doesn’t have to run again. Then it comes to him, a perfectly pleasing parallel to the offer to prove himself to Regulus at the beginning of their Transfiguration lessons.

He can always prove himself again if it means Regulus will take it to heart this time.

“See for yourself,” he offers. And Regulus meets his eyes then, a bit confused, a bit dumbfounded by an openness James has shown him over and over.

James means it though. He wouldn’t kid about this, and he knows Regulus understands his overture, to seek out answers on his own when James’s own reassurances might not be enough for him.

He practically sighs in relief when he feels Regulus treading through his shield forest again.

He also thinks he understands better the changes in atmosphere surrounding the shields now that he’s seen Regulus’s in day and night. He feels his own mind slip into a sort of contented liminal space, like the suspension of light and activity during the lazy hours of early evening. He’s not as aware of how his shields and the subsequent consciousness Regulus will find come across to him, but if he had to guess, he’d say Regulus is seeing thick shafts of buttery light breaking through the pine boughs to speckle the moss floor. He thinks the air is still and cool, punctuated in places by a column of warmth where the orange sun shines.

Then he feels Regulus step through the end of his shields and gaze out over his exposed mind, and here’s another difference he can see between them now that he’s tested legilimency for himself. While Regulus’s consciousness takes the form of an ocean with all its roiling turbulence and various moods, James’s appears as a secluded woodland lake, vast and still and peaceful and deceptively deep. It can be churned up and muddied or subdued into a heated, glassy mirror by a belligerent sun. It’s no less complex than Regulus’s, just different.

This evening, though, the sun is low and ruddy and when Regulus steps forward to place his palm gently on the surface of James’s thoughts, it sets the whole lake on fire as the ripples travel out indefinitely and reflect the sunset.

And James gets it.

The way Regulus calms him and settles the lake into something rare and tranquil enough to capture and mirror the most magnificent portions of him and make him feel as if he’s aflame.

The way he himself can coax Regulus’s ocean into swirls and currents of startling luminescence, unexpected and ethereal and impossible.

He wonders if he makes Regulus feel that way.

He supposes all that’s left to do is ask.

He barely registers Regulus slipping out of his mind and his shields, but then they’re just there.

Standing face to face.

And James can tell that Regulus saw what he let him see, the stillness and the fire from the setting sun and the shivering ripples from the touch of his hand alone. He can tell that despite that, he still doesn’t quite get it, won’t let himself believe it.

So James takes his face in his hands and kisses him.

It’s almost too much for his brain to process.

The feeling of soft skin and softer curls and the delicate cut of a jaw and cheekbones under his palms and fingers. Regulus’s lips are still and ever so slightly parted where James has placed his own over them. He lets the kiss linger long enough that Regulus knows he means it and then recedes while he makes up his mind.

He’ll wait.

He can wait.

It’s torture, especially when he feels the brush of a single hot breath over his own lips where they hover over Regulus’s, but he’ll do it.

If only to see the way Regulus’s eyes clarify and see him and hear him say “James,” like it’s a revelation before he’s the one pushing into his space and sealing their lips together again.

James thinks very little after that.

*

Regulus has no idea what’s come over him.

But James has inspired some latent part of him that is very uninterested in operating with his usual levels of care.

He’d had to reorganize everything he knew about the world the second James had stepped forward and tilted Regulus’s face up to him. Even before that, if he’s being honest. Maybe the second he’d placed his hand on James’s consciousness and seen the way its glassy surface had suddenly rippled and set at just the right angle to reflect the burning of the heavy vermilion sun.

Now, there’s no time for reorganizing.

James is kissing him, and he’s kissing James, and he doesn’t intend to stop even if this is a joke or a dream or a complex legilimency manipulation.

James’s hands still cradle his face, and he can’t decide if he’s going to melt with how precious it makes him feel or if he’s going to bite James for holding him like he’s breakable. James strokes his thumb over Regulus’s cheekbone and he figures he’s much closer to melting. He gives James’s lower lip a bite anyway for good measure.

James huffs out a breath, either in surprise or delight, and the feeling has Regulus opening his mouth to catch James’s air within. James takes the opportunity to press closer until the heat of his chest warms Regulus’s through his sweater and he has to tilt his head back even more to follow James’s lips, now wet and hot where the blood rushes to them.

He feels James’s tongue tease just past the line of his lips and responds by brushing it with his own. James doesn’t need any more encouragement to slide a hand back into Regulus’s hair and tilt his head at an angle that allows him to push his tongue fully into Regulus’s mouth.

Regulus’s own hands have slid up to grip at James’s upper arm and clench in the fabric of the shirt at his waist. He has his hands on James like he’s not let himself imagine for months now. He has James’s fingers twined in his curls and his fucking tongue in his mouth and it’s still not enough.

He uses the hand on James’s waist to turn him and push him back a step. For a second James looks caught off guard and he says “Regulus,” out of breath, like he thinks he’s done something wrong.

It makes Regulus want to put teeth to his throat.

He gives him another firm push so he shuts up and stumbles back where the sofa hits him at his knees. He falls back onto it without taking his eyes off of Regulus.

Then Regulus slides his own legs on either side of him so he can feel the heat of his thighs and have him looking up at him for once. He settles on James’s lap and drags a thumb along the line of his jaw.

James’s eyes have gone wide and his hands seem to automatically latch on to Regulus’s legs before skating up to land on his hips. He pulls him forward with a gentle pressure, like he can’t quite believe Regulus comes to him willingly.

Regulus will just have to convince him this is real.

He studies the sight of his fingers tracing a line from the hollow of James’s throat over the soft skin at the side of his neck to where it disappears in wild hair behind his ear. James is holding so still and breathing so shallowly that Regulus can’t help but follow the line again, this time with his mouth.

James’s breath stops completely as Regulus takes his chin in hand and tilts his head to the side then presses a slow, firm kiss to the bottom of his throat where he can feel his rabbiting heartbeat. He succeeds it with another a bit higher up, indulging himself by dragging his tongue along the skin to taste him. And of course once isn’t enough so he does it again and again as he makes his way up towards his ear.

He can feel James’s grip on his hips growing tighter and tighter the higher and slower he goes, but it’s nothing compared to the low vibrations of a sound James can no longer suppress when Regulus latches on to that sweet spot between his jaw and neck and under his ear and bites down. He laves his tongue over it, pressing against James when he squirms beneath him, then sucks on the spot until he hears his name as a broken plea for mercy or more.

It doesn’t matter which.

James finally recovers himself enough to wind one arm in a vice grip around Regulus’s waist and dig the other hand into Regulus’s hair, firm enough to divert him from his attentions to his neck and bring his mouth back to where he wants it. And that’s just fine with Regulus because in the time it took to leave his mark on James’s neck, he’d forgotten how good James’s mouth is.

His mistake. Won’t happen again.

It’s even better with James pulling Regulus against him, like there’s no way they can’t get closer even though there’s no space left between them. He feels like he was born into James’s arms and he’ll die there with how unrelenting they are around him. He can’t escape, no more running away, not that he would even entertain such a ludicrous thought at a time like this.

A time when their kisses have turned ungraceful and wet, almost reminiscent of a fight if they weren’t both so clearly willing to lay themselves out for the other to do as they please.

Regulus tugs at James’s hair, and James sucks on his tongue. James’s fingers graze under the hem of Regulus’s sweater, and Regulus drags a cloying hand down James’s chest. Regulus inches forward just a bit more and James’s hips give an involuntary roll beneath him and Regulus can’t stop his gasp at the feeling.

That puts a halt to things.

James pulls back to stare up at him, and his hair is wrecked and his lips are swollen and shiny and his pupils are blown wide and black. Regulus can do nothing but stare back.

Then James huffs out a laugh and closes his eyes.

“Regulus,” he groans, and his head hits the back of the couch. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Regulus feels some of the alert tension drain out of him without James’s hot hands roaming over his waist and hips and legs. Not in a bad way, though. It’s probably for the best, considering that fifteen minutes ago Regulus had been living in a world where James’s affections were some high, unreachable pedestal that he liked to look up at sometimes. Now they’re so real and present that Regulus might be choking on them. He’d keep going, take anything James would give him out of the fear that it would all be snatched from his hands the moment he leaves the Room. So it’s for the best.

“You did say early on that if I wanted to off you there were cleaner ways of doing it,” Regulus replies, dredging up an old memory of his time as the cat with James.

James laughs once at that.

“If that’s what you think clean is, then I don’t even want to know what you consider messy.”

If Regulus were a less sensible person he would take this opportunity to show James just what messy could mean in the right context. But he is burdened with pragmatism, and they really shouldn’t push this any further than they already have.

Besides, Regulus doesn’t exactly dislike this, how James’s hands stroke lightly up and down the outside of his thighs, how he’s letting Regulus feel for his heartbeat and toy with strands of his untamable hair.

“I think,” Regulus says, “I was under the impression you were made of sturdier stuff.”

James grins wide where his head lulls on the sofa and opens heavy lidded eyes to take Regulus in. Then he brings one hand up to the back of Regulus’s neck and guides him forward, meeting in the middle with their foreheads touching. James sighs, and Regulus tries to hold still for him. He’s unfamiliar with this kind of affection, slow and peaceful, without direction, but he’ll do his best if it brings James as much contentment as it seems to.

“I don’t stand a chance against you,” James murmurs, and Regulus feels the words against his lips. “Probably never did.”

“Probably never did since…” Regulus prompts.

James smiles in response.

“Since Christmas.” He pulls back a bit to see how that lands with Regulus and reaches out to tuck a rogue curl behind his ear. “I realized some things. Did some soul searching. It was all very dramatic.”

Regulus chuckles to himself.

Then James asks, “What about you?”

Regulus bites his cheek and looks anywhere but at James.

“Longer.”

James tries to catch his eye.

“How much longer?”

“Just… longer.”

“Before the last occlumency lesson?”

“Maybe.”

“Before Halloween?”

“James.”

James looks delighted.

“Before October?”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly have anticipated what it would do to me to be in your head now, could I?” Regulus snaps when he’s had enough of this indignity. “Not to mention you have absolutely no respect for any sort of boundaries when you’re curious about something.” He’s aware that his point might lack some traction, sitting on James’s lap as he is, but the principles are true enough.

He's half tempted to crawl off and put an end to this all, but James seems to sense the intention and loops his arms around Regulus’s waist, pulling him forward until he can bury his smile in Regulus’s chest. It’s too endearing to deny, so Regulus just winds his fingers into James’s hair and presses his nose against the top of his head.

They stay like that, just breathing each other in, until James looks up at Regulus with a wonder so complete it just might be gratitude.

“You’re right,” he says. “You were at a complete disadvantage. I was just wandering around totally air-headed and blind as a bat while you were suffering the consequences of my harmless experiments.”

Regulus hums in agreement.

“It’s a good thing that we’re on more even footing now,” James says.

“Oh?” Regulus can’t resist the opening. “We are, are we?” He sends a slim probe to drag featherlight touches along the bark of James’s shield forest and is rewarded with James closing his eyes and failing to repress a shiver.

“Okay, maybe not quite yet,” James chokes out, and Regulus runs his nails along his scalp in reward for his easy concession.

Then, apropos of nothing, James says, “Your mind is an ocean.” The shift is a bit surprising, even as it sounds like something James has been itching to get off his chest. Regulus had known the patterns and behaviors of his own mind in some capacity but he stills when he hears it from James.

“It’s enormous,” he continues. “Volatile. Deep. Almost frighteningly so. It’s constantly in motion, I can hardly keep track of it.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s seen. “And at night, it’s so black and the sky is so black I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. But I can feel how big it all is.

“And then I touch it and it glows,” he grins. “Like painting with light in water. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He’s watching Regulus, not looking for an explanation but rather like he looks at him and sees the ocean, a thing of such beauty and danger that he’s all but slave to it.

Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that, so he says, “Yours… is a lake.”

And he doesn’t have James’s honest way with words, but he tries.

“It’s living and playful and inviting.” He picks each word carefully and he slides the backs of his fingers along James’s cheek. James catches his hand and keeps it against his face as he waits for Regulus to continue.

“It’s deep as well, layers upon layers of surprises. But then sometimes it goes still and flat as a mirror. And when I touched it…” Regulus pauses, remembering the moment. “When I touched it, it’s like it set just right and then the sunset was above and below and it was like I was there, just me and your forest, suspended between two skies.”

James gazes at him.

“You make me feel like that, you know,” he says. And Regulus knows James is brave, but it seems to have taken some extra courage on his part to say that. “I wish I could describe it better than that, but it’s the truth. I feel still and deep and somehow also like I’m on fire when I’m with you.

“I’ve never felt like that before,” James says like it’s a confession. He pulls Regulus forward until their lips are brushing. “I want to feel that way again.”

Another confession.

“If you’ll let me.”

And who is Regulus to deny such a request?

He closes his eyes and takes James’s mouth with his own and tries to infuse James with that feeling as well as he’s able. With his tongue, with his hands, with some unnamable force inside him that’s pushing at the walls of his heart to be let out.

He won’t let it, but for now this is plenty good enough.

Chapter Text

In hindsight, James was never going to be normal about this.

Maybe in his head he could play it off, come across cool and pleased, the triumphant return of Casual James to shrug and smirk and say Yeah, I kissed Regulus Black. And what about it?

It didn’t sound very realistic in theory, and it certainly didn’t pan out that way in reality.

In reality, James had stumbled up the stairs of Gryffindor Tower on weak legs, all the energy he’d usually channel into motor functions rerouted to fuel a manic smile that he couldn’t convince his face to abandon no matter what. He’s pretty sure he passed Mary at one point and responded to her appropriately subdued “Evening, James” with a completely inappropriately loud “Hi!” She looked back at him startled, but he didn’t have the capacity to care that he seemed like his parents had never socialized him.

He’d taken the stairs to the dorm by twos and was thinking about bursting into song when he closed the door behind him. He was completely unaware of the three people staring at him as he made his way to his bed with a spring in his step.

James was humming to himself as he sorted his laundry on his comforter when he heard “Prongs?” from his left.

“Yeah?” he said, still lost in his golden cloud of giddy contentment to pay too much attention.

“What’s that on your neck?” Peter asked hesitantly.

That was when things got real for James again.

He slapped a hand over the spot where he could still feel an echo of Regulus’s lips and tongue and the bite of his teeth and spun around to meet three faces of varying expectation.

Peter looked disbelieving, like he’d discovered a new race of two-headed pixies and wasn’t quite sure if they were real or if he’d been drugged to hallucinate them.

Remus was lounging back on his own bed watching James with a sort of impressed indolence like he’d won tickets to a very expensive theater production on opening night.

Sirius looked…

Well, Sirius was looking at James with a kind of unblinking dead-eyed stare. James thought he might have seen his eye twitch.

He felt awareness come rushing back into him, like his body had just received the news that it was not in fact floating through the sky and was in fact still very much on earth and very maimable.

“Sirius…” James said slowly.

“James,” Sirius bit out, “I believe Peter asked you a question.”

James’s eyes darted around the space and noted the inconvenient way Sirius’s bed and Sirius himself were positioned between him and the only door.

“Now, Sirius-”

“It’s very rude to ignore your friends, James.” James could hear the growl in his voice as Sirius unwound his legs and set his feet on the floor. “I know your parents raised you better.”

James started edging around the curve of the room, back stuck to Peter’s bed so he could keep Sirius’s murderous stare in sight.

“But I was raised with very good manners,” Sirius said as he stood from the bed. “Which is why I’m going to give you a whole, generous five second head start.”

James had made it all the way to Remus’s bed by then, but five seconds was not enough.

“Okay, hold on just a moment-”

“Five.”

“Don’t you think this is a little bit rash- ”

“Four.”

“Pads, I thought you were cool with all this-”

“That was when I thought my little brother had the good sense not to let you put your paws all over him!”

“Well, that’s just crass, I was a perfect gentleman-”

“Three.”

“Are you not even going to-”

“Two.”

“Remus, do something!”

“Sorry, James, could you scoot to the left a bit? You’re blocking my view of Sirius.”

“One.”

“Oh, fuck.”

Sirius launched himself across the room and tackled James to the floor right as he made his dash for the door. James shouted and managed to roll out from under him. Sirius gave chase over two beds and around Peter and James managed to scoop up his wand from the pile of clothes on his way past.

He flicked his wand and Sirius’s trunk screeched into the middle of the room. James hurtled over it and heard the satisfying thud and curse of Sirius banging his knee right into it.

It wasn’t enough time to make it to the door, but it was enough time to make it to the window.

James fumbled the latch undone and shoved the window open, letting in a gust of cold winter air. He jumped up onto the sill and called “Accio broom!” as Sirius clambered over the chest and towards James with bloodlust in his eyes and his teeth bared.

James’s broom burst from under his bed and smacked into his waiting palm, just in time for James to tip out the window with a laugh.

He heard Sirius’s string of yelled curses follow him into the night.

It wouldn’t last forever, but James relished the flipping of his stomach as he fell then sailed up, up, up towards the clear stars above him. He closed his eyes and let the smile overtake his face again and despite the biting cold and his best friend out for his blood and the ridiculous hour, everything felt perfect to James just then, hanging in the star-studded darkness with the memory of Regulus’s eyes on him and the taste of his mouth still lingering on his tongue.

It was slightly less romantic when James landed half an hour later, only to be shoved into the icy lake by a large black dog.

Still worth it, though.

And it’s still worth it as he sits at breakfast the next morning, the first bright cold day of February, with that goofy smile slapped back on his face. Peter and Remus had rolled their eyes earlier when James had commented on the glorious weather they were having and paused to vigorously shake the hand of a confused Professor Slughorn in the hallway.

James is getting odd looks at the Gryffindor table; very few people are this enthusiastic about porridge so soon after waking up, or ever really. The girls especially seem curious as to the strange dynamic their fellow seventh years have arrived with: James grinning like he’s running for election, Peter and Remus resigned, and Sirius, unaware that his mission to cut through his toast is not only complete but is in fact proceeding on to carving a dent in his plate.

Dorcas has joined them today as she started to occasionally after the holiday. She’s gotten close with Mary and Lily as well and doesn’t seem to mind the way Marlene is practically sat on top of her. She is, however, the only one among them who has not had six and a half years of Marauders Civilian Response Training.

This is why she’s the one to take in all the strange looks and stilted conversation between them and boldly ask, “Is anyone going to explain what’s up with James?”

Peter’s head immediately sinks into his hands.

They rest of them look at each other.

Dorcas does not seem to know how to read this.

“Sorry, was I not supposed to say anything? I just thought it was strange that he looks like someone’s threatened to kill his family if he stops smiling today. Is that normal?”

“Not quite,” Lily responds. “At least not usually. We prefer to let these things go, they sort themselves out most the time and it saves us a massive headache, but you might have caught on to a special case, Cas.”

When Dorcas continues to look at them blankly, Mary leans over.

“See, you were right to pick up on James. He’s sort of the anomaly here since he seems happy as a clam and the rest of them aren’t exactly encouraging him.” She points to Remus and Peter. “Peter’s in what we call his low to mid level Crisis State, which isn’t all that unusual. Mostly just an indicator that something’s going on.”

“And Remus I think we could characterized as exasperated but amused,” Lily cuts in. “Which means whatever the issue is, it isn’t actually all that severe.”

“Unless it’s terribly severe and Remus is just a half-rate boyfriend,” Sirius bites out.

“Ah, and here’s the other half of our puzzle,” Marlene adds, throwing an arm around Sirius’s stiff shoulders. “Sirius’s moods are famously volatile and quite obvious-”

“Hey-”

“And we can take some clues from the fact that he’s looking at James like he meant to poison his porridge this morning but forgot to.”

James stops eating when he hears that.

“So, what do we think, ladies?” Marlene asks, looking between Lily and Mary.

“James definitely fucked something up,” Mary says without looking away from her eggs.

“Excuse me, I did not-”

“And it personally offended Sirius,” Lily adds. “But not so much that Remus feels like he has to intervene.”

“And Pete doesn’t seem to have cried yet today.”

Peter lifts his tea in a half-hearted toast.

“So consensus is… Sirius is just indulging in a bit of drama again?” Marlene suggests. She receives affirming nods from Lily and Mary. Dorcas is looking between them like she thinks she should be taking notes.

“Marlene, your wisdom always astounds me,” James comments. “It’s a good thing Dorcas here has you to guide her when Sirius is intent on blowing certain nonissues out of proportion.”

Marlene smiles demurely at the flattery, but Mary isn’t so quick to let things go.

“Now, hold on. We still haven’t answered Cas’s original question. So, what’s got you in such a good mood, James?”

“Something that would piss Sirius off too,” Lily reminds them.

James is ready to suavely evade a direct answer—if it were up to him, there’d already be a banner hanging over the faculty table that reads JAMES POTTER KISSED REGULUS BLACK ON JAN. 31, 1978 AT APPROXIMATELY 8:48 PM, but something tells him that Regulus might object to such a tactless and inconspicuous response—but then he notices Dorcas’s furrowed brow and eyes boring into him.

“Wait…” she says to herself.

Then she looks over her shoulder towards the Slytherin table. James doesn’t have to follow her eyes to see where they’ve landed; his own have bounced off the person in that location more than once this morning. But he looks anyway for the sheer thrill of seeing Regulus sitting there, lovely and austere as ever, stirring his tea with ringed fingers. James thinks he could live off the feeling of being the only person in this room who knows what those fingers feel like threaded through his hair and gripping his sweater.

It might show on his face too because Dorcas looks back and him and her eyes widen.

“No way.”

James suddenly wonders if he should be scared. He’s not exactly sure what Regulus’s friends know about the two of them or what he planned to tell them. Apparently enough that Dorcas only needs a long look at James’s face to put the pieces together, which isn’t comforting.

Marlene has caught on to Dorcas’s shock now.

“No way what?” she asks. “Do you know something about this?”

Dorcas just lets out a single sharp laugh before she’s pushing away her unfinished breakfast and standing from the bench.

“Sorry, I just have to go make my friend’s life a living hell,” she says through a grin and drops a kiss to Marlene’s head before grabbing her bag and striding out the door of the Great Hall.

The Gryffindors watch the place where she disappeared.

“What was that about?” Marlene demands, leaning forward. “James, if you’ve done something that’s driven my girlfriend off I can assure you I’ll make your life very uncomfortable. I know where you live. I know your parents.”

Remus scrubs his face and cuts in before James can start making ransom bargains with Marlene for whatever it is she plans on telling his parents to ruin his life.

“Don’t worry about it, Marlene. If Cas is doing what I think she’s doing James will catch more than enough flack for it.”

Somehow Remus has a way of solving problems while being not at all reassuring.

Sirius, though, seems mollified if the way he’s looking at James is any indication, like he’s imagining Regulus coming up with some inventive new hex to use on James when he finds out from Dorcas that James has given them away already.

James doesn’t think this is entirely outside the realm of possibilities.

However, in order for Regulus to hex him, he has to be in the same room with him.

James likes being in the same room as Regulus. Very much.

So James finishes his porridge content with the idea that they’ve all won this morning.

His buoyant mood carries him through the entire day and well into the evening. He’s finishing up his Charms homework at the table by the window in the common room, enjoying the low chatter and peaceful atmosphere in a way he never has before, when Remus sits down across from him without any preamble.

“James,” he says in a low voice.

For a second James thinks he’s in trouble; Remus only uses that voice when he means business. But then Remus folds his hands deliberately and sends a quick look around the common room to see if anyone is listening in.

James finds himself leaning forward to hear what he has to say.

“I have reason to believe that a certain mutual friend of ours may be in a position that could come to some advantage to her, should certain events transpire soon,” he says carefully.

James is a bit lost in all the high-handed anonymity Remus has employed to get his point across but does his best to reciprocate.

“Um. And what sort of advantage would this friend be receiving?”

“One of a romantic nature, no doubt.”

James thinks hard about this. Who does he know that’s on the precipice of romance? Besides himself, of course. But who is he kidding, James is gone, deep into whatever lies over the edge of that precipice. He hardly took one look before he was swan diving his way in.

He shakes himself back to the present and scans the common room. Then he follows Remus’s gaze to where Lily and Mary sit together on the sofa.

“And,” James begins, “does this mutual friend happen to have rather impressive red hair?”

“Indeed,” Remus agrees.

“I see. And what is it you suggest we do about the whole thing? Not meddle surely?”

“Surely not,” Remus scoffs. “We’re gentlemen, James, please. No, I rather think meddling might be a bit too on the nose for this particular situation.”

“Perhaps something less direct then?” James suggests.

“Maybe a hint.”

“Or even just a vague insinuation would probably do the trick.”

James meets Remus’s eyes, and they come to an agreement.

When Lily rises from the couch some twenty minutes later and heads off to the girls dormitory, James and Remus take the chance to relocate. They sit down on either side of Mary, interrupting her view where she watches Lily disappear in the stairway. She looks between them but doesn’t seem all that surprised they’re suddenly there. Instead she just blows one stray curl off her forehead and sets about cleaning up her ink and parchment with a kind of tired resignation.

“Anything you’d like to talk about, MacDonald?” James tries. “You seem a bit… burdened.”

“No burdens here, James,” she says as she’s tucking her quill away. “Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“You know you can always tell us to just fuck off. You don’t have to exhaust yourself with lying,” Remus puts in.

Mary sighs and sinks back into the sofa. She folds her arms, tucking her hands into the bell sleeves of her white sweater, and closes her eyes.

“What’s one meant to do with Lily Evans?” she asks no one in particular.

James and Remus exchange a startled look over her head. They’d gone into this with the idea that they’d have to lay some groundwork, maybe scout the territory. But James supposes they shouldn’t be all that surprised that Mary already seems to be about four nimble steps ahead of them.

Mary cracks one eye and looks at them, visibly unimpressed.

“What, you thought I’d need emotional intelligence lessons from you numbskulls? Don’t make me laugh.”

“I thought we were getting better,” James mutters.

“If by better you mean you’ve reached the maturity of most fifteen-year-olds then sure. We can agree on that.”

“Remus, did you have something you wanted to discuss with Mary? I wasn’t under the impression my involvement would get me bullied this evening.”

Mary allows one wry smile.

Remus, ever the observant one, seems to catch on to whatever strange mood Mary has found herself in. He relaxes a bit into the arm of the couch and watches Mary where she has her eyes closed again but doesn’t look the least bit peaceful.

“What does one want to do with Lily Evans?” he asks.

Mary doesn’t respond for a moment, but her brow is furrowed and her mouth is etched in a frown.

She’s quiet and serious when she says, “One wants to give her everything she deserves. Everything one can.”

James feels that in his heart, how very sincere his usually bright, sarcastic friend is.

It’s not the whole truth though. There’s something left out.

Remus says, “But…” and Mary says, “But.”

She sighs and opens her eyes. Then she pushes herself up on the sofa, reanimated by her straight posture and impeccable façade. James can tell she’s put that molten moment of admission behind her, written it off as a fluke and moved on to more pressing matters.

“But it’s not realistic,” she says cleanly.

James wants to squawk at that, at the shift in demeanor and cool practicality of her decision, but Remus gives him a warning look.

He asks, just as calm as ever, “And why’s that?”

Mary lets out a sharp laugh.

“Why? Just bloody look at us. Two girls, two muggle-born girls making stupid doe eyes at each other just in time for us to graduate and go our separate ways on the eve of a war.” She shuts a textbook on the table and unceremoniously drops it into her bag. “It sounds like the start of a bad joke,” she mutters. “It is a bad joke. And we’re the fucking punch line.”

This goes much deeper than James had expected. Mary continues before he can get lost in it.

“You know, not two days ago someone set her bag on fire in the hallway?”

James flinches at that. He hadn’t known.

Mary can obviously see his surprise, and there’s a sort of jaded acceptance in her eyes.

“Just lit it up in one fell swoop. Caught her hair before we were able to put it out.”

“Mary-”

“She wasn’t hurt, luckily. But I don’t kid myself into believing that’s the worst that’ll happen before the year’s out. Before the war’s over.”

She laughs again, something dry and a little desperate.

“Merlin, what are we supposed to do? What are any of us supposed to do?” She drags her manicured hands down her face, pulling at her expression of devastated mirth. “I want to be with her, god knows. But how are we supposed to take any of this seriously when I can’t protect her from even that? It all just feels so trite and silly.”

James meets Remus’s eyes over her head again and sees a mirrored expression of grief there.

They’ve been sheltered from the insidious effects of the war by nature of their birth. Something as trivial as the makeup of their blood protecting them from the worst of the bigots and bullies in and out of Hogwarts’s halls. They’ve been free to go about their lives, falling in love and crushing on each other and holding off the end of the year and the violence that awaits them all with a cultivated cloud of optimism.

Mary and Lily haven’t been so lucky.

Instead, they’ve stood side by side in the shared knowledge that as soon as they step out of these doors, they’ll be coming face to face with a collection of Britain’s most powerful witches and wizards, all of whom want them dead.

So they’ve had to put aside the delicate buds of affection between them, harden their hearts and snap them off the stem before they can begin to bloom and the pain of killing something so rare and beautiful just hurts that much worse.

It makes James want to cry. The cursed knowledge of how their friends have borne this weight with their heads held high and no one the wiser pushes down on him.

He won’t stand for it.

“You have to do it, Mary.”

She gives him a venomous look.

“I don’t expect you to understand, James,” she replies coldly.

“You’re right. I can’t,” he concedes. “But, Godric, you still have to do it. You have to try.”

Remus watches him cautiously but doesn’t stop him. James appreciates the show of trust. He scoots closer to Mary.

“I can’t understand what position you’re in, and I won’t ever. It’s just not the same.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But there’s a war waiting for all of us. And I understand wanting something with that hanging over your head. I understand the fear of having it taken from you.”

He takes a deep breath and tries to store away all the things he can’t fathom losing in the next year of his life: his friends, his brother, his home, his parents, Regulus-

Losing even one of them feels like it could be enough to end his world.

There’s too much hanging in the balance. But it helps a bit knowing that he’s not the only one keeping a closer eye on what he loves.

“Mary, you may never get the chance to make this choice again. Right now you’re choosing not pursue this because you think you’ll lose it. And maybe you will,” he admits, giving that sliver of darkness its proper respect. “I won’t say it’s not possible. But when it happens- if it happens, you won’t have a choice. There’ll be nothing you can do about it cause you’ll already have done everything you can.

“But now?” James meets Mary’s eyes. “Now you’ve still got that choice. And you haven’t made it yet, and all the terrible, wonderful things that can happen are still yours if you want them.”

There’s one silent tear making its way down Mary’s cheek. Remus lays a gentle arm across her shoulders.

“And honestly, Mary, you really think we’re going separate ways after we graduate?” James says with a watery smile. “I fully intend to go flat hunting with you and pick out ugly drapes that you’ll curse every time you see them. And Sirius will probably insist you host him for dinner at least once a week.”

Mary lets out a wet laugh.

“And you can be sure you’ll have all of us putting up wards and checking in and watching your backs. We just wouldn’t know any other way to do it.”

Mary hangs her head and toys with a bracelet on her wrist. It takes James a moment to recognize the charm bracelet Lily got her for Christmas.

“There’s no way we’re letting you and Lils face this alone,” Remus says to her quietly.

They give Mary a moment, all three of them watching the silver links of the bracelet catch on the firelight.

Then Mary sniffs and lifts her head, tucking one stray curl back into place.

“Alright,” she says, her voice firm. “But if you idiots are going to talk me into horrible ideas then you’d better make yourselves useful and give me a plan for how to ask her out.”

James feels the smile overtake his face again. He can’t help it, not when Mary is sitting there somehow looking haughty and entitled to their mental labor when just moments before she’d been teetering on an edge.

He’s not completely sold on the whole House divisions thing; he thinks there’s some of every House in each of them. But that mangy old hat was definitely onto something because right now Mary MacDonald is nothing if not a Gryffindor.

“Shit, alright Prongs, think,” Remus says. “You’ve got to have an expired backlog of date ideas you never got to use on Lily.”

“Those are patented,” he returns. “This has to be original. It has to knock her socks off.”

“No, it just has to be convincing,” Mary corrects. “No waffling. No unclarity. If we’re going to do this, it’s going to be completely ridiculous and full-fledged. We haven’t got time for anything else.”

“Well then, you might as well just go for Valentine’s Day,” Remus says.

“Valentine’s Day?” James says startled.

“Valentine’s Day.” Mary nods her head slowly. “That gives me almost two weeks. Good one, Remus. I’ll check back in later.”

And with that, she stands abruptly and gathers her bag before stepping over Remus’s legs and disappearing up the stairs.

Remus folds his arms and watches her go, content with his work.

James is already on to the next crisis.

“Valentine’s Day?” he hisses.

Remus looks at him strangely.

“What’s wrong with Valentine’s Day? I thought you loved that sort of thing.” He studies James’s panicked face for a moment then says, “Oh. You forgot.”

“Not really, not so much forgetting as much as it was forgetting that it might be relevant to me this year,” James says, taking off his glasses and polishing them feverishly on his sweater.

Remus just watches him.

“Is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Relevant to you this year.”

“Fuck, I don’t know. I hope so.” James replaces his glasses and meets Remus’s amused gaze. “I need to figure this out, don’t I?”

“Indeed,” Remus agrees.

“Fuck.”

“Indeed,” Remus agrees.

*

In hindsight, Regulus was never going to be normal about this.

He hadn’t really expected kissing James Potter to solve all his problems, which is a good thing because it didn’t.

If anything, it added a whole heaping pile of them to the already existing overflow of problems that keeps him company in his head.

It’s almost a good thing, though. Almost. Because these problems are more of the Did he really meant it? What does this make us now? variety, or the How do I even act around him? variety, and less along the lines of Does the homicidal narcissist know I stole a piece of his soul?

If he can’t get away with having fewer problems, he’ll settle for the temporary distraction of more trivial ones.

Exhibit A: Dorcas barging into the boys dorm, throwing herself onto to Regulus’s bed, and saying “Did you fuck James Potter?” with a rather impressive lack of subtlety.

Barty’s mouth drops right open where he’s propped against Evan on their bed across the room.

“One more time, Dorcas?” Evan says with squinted eyes. “For the people in the back?”

Dorcas looks mighty pleased with herself when she says, “I simply asked Reggie if he’s fucked James Potter recently.”

“That’s what I thought you said. Please,”—Evan waves a hand—“don’t let me interrupt.”

Dorcas looks back to Regulus expectantly.

Regulus glares at her.

“No, I did not fuck James Potter,” he says slowly. And though he knows he’s going to regret it, he asks, “What could possibly have led you to think such a thing?”

Dorcas rolls her eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the way he’s been walking around looking like someone’s offered him a blowjob on a stick, or the rather vicious mark on his neck, or Sirius’s blatant distaste for the whole thing.”

Laid out like that, Regulus can admit it’s sort of convincing evidence. Barty must think so too because he cackles and falls back across Evan’s legs.

“Fuck, this is too good,” he gasps. “I was really hoping you’d snap one day, Reg, but I never thought I’d be so lucky. Not only have you finally reached your breaking point but it just so happens to manifest as a psychosexual revenge crush.”

“A fucking what?” Regulus blurts.

This only makes Barty laugh harder.

“Come on, tell us. Is it Potter that gets you off or the thought of shagging your brother’s best friend when he can’t do a thing about it?”

Regulus covers his face with his hands.

“You’re fucking sick, Barty,” he says, though it has slightly less impact when it’s muffled behind his palms. “You are mentally ill in the very worst way. Did I not just say that I didn’t fuck him?”

“So that mark wasn’t you, then?” Dorcas prods.

Regulus just groans and scrapes his hands down his face.

“So it was?”

“You make me want to commit so many crimes, Dorcas.”

She grins like he’s just told her he’s quite a fan of what she’s done with her hair today.

“It was you.”

“I won’t talk about this,” he says, and snaps his journal shut where it was lying open on his lap. He crawls under his blankets and points his wand at the curtains around his bed even though it’s only 9 o’clock. “I have nothing more to say about this.”

“Oh, really now, Reg. You haven’t even said anything.” Dorcas tries to pull his blankets back. “Did you at least kiss him?”

Regulus yanks the comforter away from her and drags it over his head.

“Was there tongue?” Barty calls from across the room.

“You didn’t go on a date did you? I expect better from you, Reg,” Evan chastises.

“Yeah, a good hate fuck at the very least.”

“You’re going soft.”

“He’s making you soft. Are you really going to let him do that?”

“Reg.” Dorcas pulls at his blankets again. “Reg, are you two together?”

Regulus grabs his wand out from under the blankets and hexes Dorcas off his bed. Then he shuts the curtains with a snap and casts a powerful silencing charm.

He’s had enough of questions he can’t even begin to answer.

Because are they together? Does this mean James likes him? Is this all a joke?

Sometimes Regulus has to mentally slap himself a bit. He recalls the words James had said to him in the Come and Go Room, hard as that is when the memory is clouded by the heat of his look and their bodies pressed against each other and the drag of his lips. You make me feel like that, he’d said, Like I’m on fire. I want to feel like that again.

Out of context, it’s pretty hard to misconstrue.

But Regulus is an expert at doubting the good things in his life.

Maybe James only wants them to be physical. It’s hard to deny how they’d affected one another, and Regulus doesn’t think he’d be unhappy with that outcome. He could content himself with that if James just wanted to use him to make himself feel good. The idea of being chosen by him for that specific purpose is a bit heady even.

But it’s not exactly what he wants them to be.

Regulus has always known that James is attractive, in an unfortunately alluring way that speaks directly to most, if not all, of his preferences. That’s just a fact of life. But he hadn’t really considered James like that, at least not seriously, until he knew him. It was his calm, centered patience, his enthusiasm and optimism, the remarkable way he rose to a challenge, and every single time he never failed to show Regulus just a bit of kindness that had dragged Regulus down, down, down until he felt as if he were sitting at the bottom of the ocean, looking up at the distant underside of the faceted surface and the sunlight breaking apart across it. He was surrounded on all sides by a solid wall of water; the thin air he’d breathed for his whole life had been replaced with something thicker and heavier, weighed down and made dense by an emotion that it hurt him to breathe but that he had to all the same.

So needless to say, Regulus might not be cut out for a purely physical relationship.

But he’ll take what he can get. It’s been his strategy all his life because what he could get was rarely enough. He doesn’t see why now would be any different, why there would suddenly be some great excess of things he wants for him to pick through and discard as he pleases.

He’d thought the simplicity of this new set of problems would make his life temporarily easier, but he was wrong. They’re metastasizing in his brain, growing beyond their proper boundaries to infringe on his sleep and his focus until three days after the kiss, Regulus can’t take it anymore.

He stands from the Slytherin table at dinner before anyone else has time to finish their pudding and shoulders his bag. He can tell James is maybe just as anxious to meet again because as soon as he’s stepped out of the bench, James’s head pops up and his eyes catch Regulus’s.

Regulus takes some satisfaction from the fact that he doesn’t have to say a thing and still knows James will come to him in a few minutes.

The Come and Go Room appears much like it did the last time, the sofa still in place but with a few more jaunty throw pillows strewn about and, for some indecipherable reason, a tasteful tapestry of a unicorn hung along the wall opposite the fireplace. Regulus supposes it makes the space feel closer, cozier than it had before, but he’s a bit annoyed that he’s given it the impression that he needs comfort in the form of unicorn tapestries.

He hardly has to wait five minutes for James to come through the door and cringes a bit at how bloody obvious it must have been in the Great Hall. The curses don’t last long, however, when James stops as he closes the door and just looks at Regulus.

Then he drops his head and Regulus can just make out an unrestrained smile stretching his cheeks and closing his eyes. He’s never known anyone so suited to smiling, broad and toothy and natural every time.

“What’s that for?” Regulus asks from where he stands by the fire.

James just shakes his head and continues smiling.

“James,” Regulus snaps.

“Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t look sorry.

“Bloody hell, are you ill?”

James laughs once at that then tips his head back so he’s smiling at the ceiling now. Does the whole damn room need to know that he’s gone mad? Honestly.

“No, I’m not ill, Regulus.” James enunciates his name and finally meets his eyes. The smile isn’t completely gone, but it’s shifted into something wry and fond and knowing as they look at each other. Regulus is a bit uncomfortable with how seen it makes him feel.

Then James is striding over to meet him where he stands and before Regulus can do anything, he tilts his chin up with one finger and leans down to kiss him.

It’s different this time, controlled and lingering and it ends with James’s lips just resting on his. Regulus is afraid he’ll break if he moves, like a cold teacup that’s been suddenly filled with scalding water. James draws back just far enough to look him in the eyes, and with his fingers still brushing Regulus’s jaw and the firelight dancing along his glasses and the strong, almost Greek lines of his face this close, Regulus is absolutely sure he’d do whatever James wants in this moment.

Fuck whatever he’s determined he wants for himself. He wants what James wants. He wants to do what James wants him to do. It’s pathetic and somehow the only thing that matters right now.

“How are you?” James asks quietly. Regulus sort of melts. Internally, of course.

“Um.”

James grins affectionately and trails the fingers on his jaw into his hair. Regulus sucks in a full breath like he has to brace for the luxurious pleasure of feeling a hand in his hair that isn’t going to yank it.

“That good, huh?”

“Don’t press your advantage,” he manages to say.

“My advantage? What would you say if I told you this is the first time I feel like I might have an advantage when I’m with you?” James asks, curious as ever.

“I would say-” Regulus breathes, but he has to regroup when James’s warm hand cradles the back of his neck. He feels so close to shaking apart and yet steadied by that one hand on him. He wonders if James knows he’s the only thing holding him together right now. He thinks he might, if the way he’s looking at him like he’s studying some rare night-blooming flower is anything to go off of.

“I would say we’ve messed this up somehow, if you suddenly feel you’re at an advantage with me,” Regulus gets out, taking one step away from James’s reach. It’s a terrible loss not to have his hand on him anymore, but a necessary one if he hopes to think coherent thoughts and not make a total fool of himself.

James, for his part, doesn’t look offended at Regulus’s need for space. He just tucks his hands into his pockets and watches Regulus with a satisfied expression.

“You’re right. The natural order of things is on its head if I don’t feel distinctly out of my depth around you.”

Regulus appreciates the effort, but it’s not enough to quell the instability that lingers inside him just from James’s touch. He sinks down onto the sofa and props his head on his hand, returning James’s gaze.

They’re quiet for a moment, each waiting for the other to make a move. Regulus supposes it’s his turn.

“What are we doing, James?” He can’t help the way the question comes out like a reluctant surrender on a battlefield.

This seems to concern James, and he loses the puckish demeanor in tandem with Regulus. He swallows and runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up near the top of his head.

“I-” he starts and has to stop again. “Merlin, I’ve never actually done this before.” He sort of laughs at himself then, like he’s some fool for not ever having been in this position. Regulus thinks it’s a bit merciless of him to expect himself to know how to handle every situation flawlessly, and he doesn’t like when James isn’t lenient with himself. So he rises from the sofa and makes his way slowly back to where James stands.

Regulus, despite not being anywhere near as brave as James is, is used to saying and hearing hard things. He can take the lead on this one.

“I’m not really all that picky,” he starts. “I think I’d just like to know what you want.”

James tilts his head and narrows his eyes at him.

“I don’t know how I feel about that,” he says, and there’s a moment where Regulus’s stomach drops, where he thinks James is admitting that he’s just not that comfortable with Regulus’s affection for him and they’d better stop there.

But then he says, “You know I know you better than you think. I know when you’re trying not to put yourself out there or when you want to get away with something without owing a debt.”

“Oh, enough about the debts, James-”

“No. No, I won’t do it. I won’t let you let me set all the rules and make all the important decisions so you can just go along with whatever I say,” James says firmly. “What do you want?”

And why can’t he just make this easy for them? Really, Regulus can be cooperative. He’s great at figuring out what other people expect of him and carving himself into that shape. Why won’t James do the same?

“I-” Regulus doesn’t know how the sentence is going to finish. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” James steps closer.

“I don’t know,” Regulus says more quietly.

And he doesn’t have the words for it, but he can’t stop his hand from drifting up to the chain around his neck. He pulls the ring out from under his shirt and cups it in his palm. The metal is still warm from his chest where the blood runs closer to the surface of his skin, and he admires how perfectly transfigured it is, with all the right properties on the very first try and even a little extra skill left over to make it beautiful.

Then he sees James’s hand come close and cover his own. He plucks the ring from Regulus’s palm and holds it carefully between his fingers, tilting it to catch the firelight. Between the glowing copper and the minty green oxidization, it looks like something ancient and enchanted dug up from a long forgotten garden.

“I forget that you wear this,” James murmurs. “The first time I saw it on you, I never got to appreciate it fully.”

Regulus remembers that too, an extreme and painful intimacy between them overshadowed by the bookends of Regulus’s scars and the beginning of a war. They’d been robbed of this moment, but they’re here now, lucky enough for a do over.

“I couldn’t leave it,” Regulus admits. “It- it sort of makes me feel safe. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” James says. “I’d do anything to make you feel safe.”

He turns the ring over in his fingers.

“When I think about you wearing this ring,” he begins slowly, “I feel… infallible. Like I’ve swallowed vials upon vials of liquid luck and nothing I do can go wrong because I’ve already done the impossible. Regulus Black wants to keep some part of me with him, close to him, all the time. At least, that’s what I hope it means anyway.”

He lets the ring go and steps back, newly cautious after such a wrenching admission. And Regulus finally understands how they can do this. The ring can do it for them. In a way, it already has, ever since Regulus snatched it up as a last ditch effort to carry some piece of familiarity into his horrible home before the holiday.

James had said that he hoped Regulus wanted some part of him with him always. He wants to be with Regulus, in some capacity, in whatever way Regulus will let him. Regulus curses himself for ever thinking James Potter could be shallow and vapid enough to reduce him to a convenient physical outlet. They're so much more than that.

So Regulus says, “I haven’t taken it off. Not since Christmas. Someone… someone saw what it meant to me before I even realized, and they gave it to me on the chain as a gift. And then I knew.” He nods to himself, looking down at the ring. It makes so much sense now. He meets James’s eyes and says, “It’s a gift.”

James is a gift, something so unprecedented and so surprising and so undeserved.

From the way James’s face changes, he understands what Regulus is saying, and what he sees there is so raw it scares him. He has to clarify before James can run too far with his vulnerability.

“It’s a gift I don’t quite know what to do with, James. At least not yet. I know I want it, but… I don’t get many gifts. I think I just need to practice having it for a bit.”

James is already nodding.

“That seems like a good idea,” he agrees easily.

Regulus feels the tense knot in his chest beginning to unwind, but there’s one more thing he has to say.

“And it’s a gift that has to remain secret. It would be dangerous if people knew I had it.” He tucks the ring back under his shirt where it hides close to his heart.

James’s face goes solemn, but he nods again.

“I understand.”

“Is that… is it something you still want to give then?”

James smiles something helpless.

“To be perfectly honest, I don’t feel all that in control of whether I’m giving it to you or not.” At Regulus’s protest, he cuts him off. “But, if it were up to me, I’d still give it to you. Every time. It’s so worth it, Regulus.”

He takes Regulus’s hands into his own.

“And don’t go off on your own after this and overthink the whole thing and decide that it’s uneven somehow,” he says, reading right into Regulus. “It’s not. You’re not getting any more out of this than I am.”

“You just think you have me all figured out, don’t you.” Regulus tilts his head back to look him in the eye.

“Mmhm, I do.”

James leans in and kisses him again, and Regulus will concede that he may have a pretty good idea about Regulus, if not quite as good as he thinks.

Chapter Text

February progresses in a whirlwind of blinding snowstorms and school assignments by the dozen. It feels as if the majority of the student body has put their heads down in an effort to weather one or the other or both. The seventh years find their usual laissez-faire attitude interrupted by a crackdown from the professors: McGonagall gives them a rather stern warning that January has passed, they’ve all settled back in, now they’ve got about four months until NEWTS and they’re going to use every second of it. James doesn’t like the sound of that, despite having no doubts about his Transfiguration competency.

James feels a bit like he’s currently living in a fever dream because between the general lack of sunlight and hours of homework and the prickle of tension running through the school that seems to be the new norm after the Ministry attack, somehow he’s dating Regulus Black. Or is it even dating? They haven’t actually gone on a date, as much as James would really like to. He’s involved with Regulus Black, but that sounds too scandalous, too unfeeling for what they have.

So he’s something with Regulus Black. He doesn’t know what to call it, but it’s exhilarating enough just having his name in the same sentence as his own.

Truthfully, it’s hard to believe. In James’s mind, Regulus is still such a singular, solitary entity, so otherworldly and imperious that he might be a king of old with the way he holds himself separate from everyone else. But then James will spot him passing in the hallway. Regulus will be listening to his friends talk and his eyes will snag on James like they’re drawn there, and his face won’t change a bit except for the slight pink that brushes along his cheekbones. They’ll hold a shared gaze as they get closer and closer until they’re too close and his arm is brushing against James’s and a thrill shoots down his spine even through the layers of cloth between them and then he’s gone, already out of James’s line of sight.

It’s barely anything, and yet it’s theirs.

James is starving from it.

The other thing that makes it more real is Sirius. He’s gotten over his fit of dramatics from the night James returned to their dorm with an ill-advised piece of evidence on his neck, but his hackles rise every time they even get close to the subject. His displeasure soothes something in James, reminds him that Oh yeah, Sirius is sort of perpetually pissed off at me cause I kissed his little brother cause that’s something I do now.

Yet despite their abundantly clear attraction to each other and the surprisingly mature conversation they were able to have about it, James still finds himself lacking in Regulus. It recalls that sense of aloneness that had plagued him just before the holiday, and it’s almost worse this time because now James knows what he wants and sort of even has it (or is on the path to having it), but it’s not enough.

He figures it’s like a withdrawal symptom; last semester he saw Regulus once a week for Transfiguration, once a week for occlumency, and at least once a week as the cat, even if he didn’t know they were the same at the time. Tallied up like that, they’d spent nearly half their evenings every week together.

As it stands, James has seen Regulus for three legilimency lessons including the first that got very sidetracked (not that James is complaining). They meet once a week when they can manage it, and damn it, James wants more. He wants to stamp his foot like a toddler and look around for answers like Where’s my Regulus? I was specifically told that I would get more Regulus.

It’s frustrating him, especially when he’s surrounded by Remus and Sirius who literally sleep in the same bed almost every night. And Marlene and Dorcas who have no interest in hiding their relationship despite the sometimes dirty looks they receive from some of the less savory characters out and about. And even Mary and Lily who aren’t together yet but at least share a dorm room and a dinner table and clothes and books and whatever else it is that girls get to share between them. James is half tempted just to snag Regulus in the hallway one day and say fuck it and throw an arm around his shoulders, let everyone see what he’s been up to these past few months and oh, is that Regulus Black and James Potter, together?

Why, yes it is, thank you very much for asking.

But he won’t. He promised Regulus they would be a secret and he meant it. He’s aware that he’s received a rare second chance from Regulus regarding his trust in James, and he’s loathe to fuck it up again. Plus it makes more sense now, having seen Walburga’s ire taken out in its weight in flesh. James feels something deep in him start to boil when he thinks about the scars that thatch Regulus’s back. As a human, as a cat, it doesn’t matter; it draws out a precise, smoldering feeling from him that, if he didn’t know better, he might call dangerous. He does his best to live with that, but Merlin help him if Walburga Black ever steps within range of his wand.

He's got more than enough righteous rage to act on behalf of two abused boys who have occupied and expanded his heart in ways indescribable.

It doesn’t help that James hasn’t seen Regulus as the cat since over the holiday. Now, James is astute enough to catalogue all the very valid reasons why this might be. Regulus may think that now that James knows he’s the cat, there’s no point in spending time that way (not true). He may still be self-conscious about James knowing about the scars on that body (utter bullshit). He may be embarrassed about anything having to with the cat from the proximity they enjoyed when they’d read together last semester right up to the fact that they’d technically slept in the same bed (nothing to be embarrassed about, in fact quite enjoyable and maybe they should revisit that sleeping in the same bed thing given certain recent developments in their relationship?).

And it’s not even as if James dislikes what he has with Regulus. It’s delicately beautiful, and James isn’t accustomed to dealing with delicate things so it’s even more incredible that someone’s handed him the relationship equivalent of a glass snowflake and trusted him not to drop it. The last two legilimency lessons have put James in a state of such elation, being that close to Regulus with just the two of them, that they really haven’t made that much progress. James can’t bring himself to regret it though, not when Regulus looks at him all exasperated and snaps at him to focus but in the end never holds onto his annoyance long enough to deny James when he pulls him close.

James lives in those fleeting moments when he has Regulus’s slim waist between his hands and Regulus is looking up at him alone, the battlements graciously crumbling behind storm-colored eyes.

Until the next time they meet, James will just have to gorge himself on the memory, which is doable most days.

So maybe he’s just feeling extra angsty about it today because it’s Valentine’s Day.

In his opinion, he’s sort of won Valentine’s Day (which is totally a thing you can win). Everyone else can cuddle up with their paramours cause James has Regulus fucking Black, and there’s really no doubt in his mind that if he could ring a large bell (maybe a gong?) and announce their involvement in the Great Hall like he so wants to, the rest of the school would erupt into applause and unanimously agree that James Potter did in fact win Valentine’s Day.

Except he can’t cause of the secret thing.

So he won in secret.

Which is like no one knowing he’s won.

Which sucks.

And yeah, James knows all about not looking gift hippogriffs in the mouth but it’s antithetical to his nature to not be able to talk nonstop about this crazy, beautiful thing that’s happened to him. The people need to know.

Hogwarts is dressed to the nines for the holiday, and James gets a kick out of the frothy hearts that hang from the ceiling and the red sparklers that dance between them. Remus looks at it all with distaste, a face that makes Sirius laugh. The Great Hall is actually something they can all can appreciate though. The ceiling, instead of its usual reflection of the weather (which would currently be a continual snowstorm that no one really needs to be reminded of) has been charmed to portray a rather intricate fresco painting depicting cherubs, mermaids, unicorns, even a smitten dragon weaving around each other in slow motion against a bright blue sky.

James dodges more than one valentine that zips through the hallways of its own accord, off to accost some unwitting recipient with a drab poem or a quick love ballad. James is happy to let others indulge in them; he likes to think his own affections are too refined to be conveyed like that.

It seems his friends agree. He doesn’t miss the thin line of a new chain around Remus’s neck in a subdued pewter color, nor the matching one around Sirius’s. It’s not as ostentatious as the rest of Sirius’s jewelry for that very reason; he’d been sweating when he’d shown James the matching necklaces he’d gotten for him and Remus to share, simple things ending with a star pendant on one, and a crescent moon on the other. James had of course gushed over them, assuring Sirius they were perfect and Moony would love his. From the way they sat close together at breakfast and shared quiet conversation for just the two of them, James is willing to bet his broom the chain around Remus's neck leaves a star dangling under his shirt.

Marlene had basically screamed in the common room when Dorcas had shown up that morning with a newly hatched owl perched on her arm. It was a lovely thing, fluffy and sedate with rich titian colored feathers. She had explained that she’d gotten it for Marlene with the intention that they raise it together, and Marlene had had to plant her hands on her hips and calm her breathing.

“It’s just an owl, Marls,” Peter had said with concern while he’d watched Marlene touch at her eyes so her eyeliner didn’t run.

“Peter, I would have expected a bit more courtesy from you on the day I became a mother. No fucking manners, I swear.”

“Better watch your language around the young’un,” Remus had deadpanned from his place on the sofa with Sirius.

“Mmhm, they pick up bad habits fast,” Sirius agreed with a grin while fiddling with Remus’s hand.

“Bloody hell, you’re right,” Marlene had gasped. “These are the formative years. What if I’m a shit mother? What if I end up like Sirius’s mum?”

Sirius blinked at her.

“Marlene, what?”

“Fuck, what if I’m an absent parent?” She dug her hands in her hair.

“Just think of the alimony,” Remus had said, nodding gravely.

Dorcas looked as if she was beginning to regret her decision.

“We don’t have to raise the owl, Marls,” she hedged.

Marlene scoffed at her.

“Do you even hear yourself? Give me that thing. Merlin’s beard, woman, who let you have a child,” Marlene scolded as she scooped the owl into her hands. She bent her head close to its face and said, “You are loved, Gremlin. Do you hear me? Your mummies love you very much.”

The owl stared back blankly.

Dorcas was watching Marlene with a fond amusement.

“Should we go put him in the owlery?”

“For all the other owls to bully? You’re absolutely mad. He’s going in my room for now.”

“Fucking hell,” Mary groaned by the door.

“Come along, Dorcas,” Marlene ordered. “It won’t do for Gremlin to think I’m the only one trying in this relationship.”

And with that she dragged Dorcas up to the dorm with the owl in tow.

James had watched the whole oddly sweet performance play out from where he was packing his bag by the window. He’d received the package he was waiting for from his father the night before and had to rearrange all his books to accommodate Regulus’s gift. He was rather pleased with what he’d come up with on such short notice, but that would come later.

Just then, he had to make sure Mary didn’t need his help before that evening.

She had conspired with Remus and James about a good place to take Lily that would be suitably romantic and private, somewhere not too far away given the terrible weather but removed enough that it could feel like their own.

James had suggested the Astronomy Tower.

In the late afternoon light and the swirling of torrential snow around them, it was bound to be ethereal. With Remus’s suggestions of a few spells to block the worst of the snow and warm the space for long periods of time, James had no doubt Lily was in for a treat.

When they had asked her what gift she was thinking of giving her, Mary had looked them in the eye and pulled out a piece of cloth.

James and Remus had stared at it without recognition. It was nothing more than a square of off-white, faintly flowered fabric with simply embroidered edges.

“It’s a… napkin,” Remus said.

“A lovely one, at that,” James added with an elbow to his ribs.

Mary rolled her eyes at their ignorance.

“It’s a scarf,” she corrected. “For her hair or whatever else she wants to use it for. Or for nothing at all if she decides not to use it.” Mary set her shoulders back and gave them both a look that dared them to judge her for her simple gift. “In medieval times, court ladies would give their favored knights a token of their affection to take into battle, either a ring or a brooch or,”—she flipped the cloth—“a scarf. They could tie it to their swords or hide it in their armor while they fought. I made it myself, without magic, and I figured since we’re walking into a war I might as well send her in with my luck since there won’t be much more I can do.”

James was vaguely aware that both he and Remus were thoroughly speechless at that. He also kind of wanted to cry, but that was beside the point.

Mary raised an eyebrow at their complete incapacity.

“I told you I wasn’t doing this by halves.”

“No, you fucking aren’t,” Remus said slowly. “That’s rather brilliant.”

Mary looked pleased at that, and James could only nod in agreement. Mary and Lily would make quite the pair of warriors should they decide to march into battle together. He felt a sort of awe for them in that moment, and their unwavering refusal to go into this war blind and afraid.

“Anything else?” Mary asked.

“Can I hug you?” James blurted.

She huffed.

“Sure, James.”

James wrapped her in a tight hug and tried to savor the feeling of all her strength squeezing him back. He thought that maybe he’d let Mary MacDonald trick him into thinking she was too put together to need a hug every once in a while. It wouldn’t happen again.

“Alright,” he said pulling back. “Good luck. You won’t need it. Go forth and conquer.”

“Let us know if you need help before then,” Remus tacked on.

“Unlikely, but thanks,” Mary said.

James and Remus watched her step out of the portrait hole with the scarf tucked away in her bag. They looked at each other with a heavy understanding, and James clapped Remus on the shoulder as they turned away.

The rest of the day had passed in a blur of red and pink, including the shade that had covered Peter’s face when he’d received an anonymous valentine during lunch. Sirius’s eyes had widened in maniacal glee before he’d snatched it out of Peter’s hand and begun reciting the poem aloud. It of course had been intended to embarrass Peter with a dramatic reading of what he had expected to be an excess of cloying metaphors, but he’d only gotten two stanzas in when he’d cut off and said, “Bloody hell, this is rather good.”

“You wouldn’t know good poetry if it licked your knob, you twat,” Peter said as he grabbed the valentine out of Sirius’s hands and stuffed it in his pocket.

Sirius had looked rather offended at that. Remus and James were properly amused.

They spent most of their time between classes speculating as to the identity of Peter’s secret admirer. Peter was equal parts mortified and undoubtedly intrigued.

All the while, at least 50% of James’s brain was on high alert for Regulus sightings. There was no particular reason—they had already agreed at their last legilimency lesson that they’d meet that night—but it was driving James a little batty that he hadn’t even seen him today. His heart kept jumping every time he spotted a head of dark hair that turned out to not be Regulus when the face was revealed. He just wanted a glimpse; something about seeing Regulus on Valentine’s Day among all these other people, even if they had no idea about them, would make the whole thing suddenly real to James. It functioned in his mind like some strange mirror image to the Orpheus and Euridice myth they’d read about in the star book in December. If James could just see Regulus, it would draw him out of obscurity and reaffirm everything they’d said and shared with each other in the light of day.

But he kept waiting and never spotted Regulus once.

By the time he stepped into the Come and Go Room after dinner, he half thought Regulus wouldn’t show there either. But he’d hardly been there for ten minutes when the door creaks open and Regulus tentatively steps through.

James’s face does the thing it did every time he sees Regulus now (and had in fact been doing for long before the holiday) and breaks into an unrestrained smile. Regulus gives him the same look of Really? This again? but closes the door softly behind him.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” James says.

“Oh, is it? I hadn’t noticed,” Regulus replies without inflection.

“How could I have possibly guessed that you’d find something to take issue with about today?” James wonders through his grin.

“And how could I have possibly predicted that you would be shamelessly enthused about the whole notion?” Regulus shoots back as he drops his bag by the sofa.

“What’s not to like?” James goads, walking to him slowly.

Regulus lifts one judgmental eyebrow.

“Shall I begin alphabetically?”

“Shall I change your mind?” James murmurs in return. He’s close enough now that Regulus has to look up at him, something that he knows Regulus finds unacceptable because he usually takes the opportunity to wrap a quick hand around James’s tie and tug down to his level. James loves it for that very reason.

But this time, Regulus seems to be a bit more resistant to the temptation James is practically arraying before him. He holds his ground and stares James down and doesn’t make a move to close the maddening few centimeters between them.

“Bold to think you could,” he says in a low voice.

James feels something jump in his sternum at the challenge, his mind helpfully conjuring all sorts of ways he could get Regulus into a state where he would readily concede to James’s persuasions. There are flashes of simple, heady images: Regulus’s chest heaving under James’s hands with pale skin stretched over fine ribs, his head tilted back and neck bared, his eyes closed and mouth open like he wants to taste everything James could make him feel. From the sharp edge in Regulus’s eyes, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

James feels himself sway forward, feels his chin dipping down as he’s ready to admit defeat in their little standoff just to be able to kiss Regulus right now, but Regulus’s hand snakes up between them and grasps his jaw, stopping him in place.

“Work first,” he says with that smoky voice that James is now positive is meant to be heard in ambient light and close spaces.

James groans and lets his head fall back.

“Fine. Work first,” he relents. He takes one polite step back from where he really wants to be and says, “But afterwards I get to give you your gift.”

Regulus’s straightens where he stands and looks at James with a frozen expression.

“Gift?”

“Your Valentine’s Day gift.”

He’s silent for a moment.

Then he says, “I didn’t get you anything.”

James hadn’t really been expecting him to. Between the two of them, he’s certainly not the one hung up on reciprocity, so it doesn’t bother him in the least.

“That’s fine. I got you something because I wanted to.”

“James-”

“Please don’t overthink this, Regulus. It’s not that deep.”

Regulus is quiet for another moment before he relaxes a little, like a marionette who’s just been allowed to take a rest.

“Alright.” He doesn’t sound too sure about it, but it’s a win for James.

“So.” James flops onto one end of the couch, giving Regulus a pointed look like See, that side’s for you. Regulus rolls his eyes and settles on the other end facing James. The whole sequence is so cat-like James can’t help but grin at it. “What’s on the docket for today?”

“Well, I think we ought to keep working on assisted entries and maneuvering subtly in shallow thoughts,” Regulus says, all business again.

And maybe it’s all the residual impatience from the other portions of James’s life spilling over into their lessons, but he’s suddenly tired of going slow. He knows Regulus is just being careful, but Regulus is almost always careful. Too careful, James thinks. Sometimes you just have to make the jump and trust that things are going to work out.

He’s not so certain he’s still thinking of just legilimency anymore, but he says, “Why don’t I try getting into your head on my own?”

It catches Regulus off guard.

“James, I don’t think you’ve practiced enough. We’ve only done this a few times. You’re still very new to it and you haven’t spent nearly as much time as I’d like with-”

“Come on, Regulus. I can do it,” James says, taking up his hand between them. It’s cool like his hands always are, a pleasant contrast to James’s effusive heat. “Don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not a matter of trust, James. It’s a matter of fact,” Regulus says, irritated. “You’ve only been doing this for three weeks, that’s not long enough.”

“But I’ve done everything you’ve told me to, haven’t I? I can enter assisted and sort through thoughts with relative subtlety. What would be the next step?”

Regulus glares at him, and James pushes because he knows he has a point.

“Honestly, it’s only natural that we progress if I can do the other stuff by now,” James coaxes. “I’m ready, Reg. Really.”

Regulus is trying to dig up some uncertainty in James, but it’s not going to happen because he’s 100% sure that he can do this. And he wouldn’t mind showing Regulus that a leap of faith sometimes really is the right answer while he’s at it.

He sees the exact moment when Regulus gives in, the doubt packed away behind his eyes.

“Okay, James,” he sighs. He pushes one black curl off his forehead and adjusts his posture. James kind of wants to gloat or punch the air (he’s getting steadily better at winning arguments with Regulus: it’s all about playing by his rules), but he takes his cue to settle back onto his side of the sofa and prepares to jump away from his own mind.

“You remember what I said?” Regulus prompts him sternly. “Be exact, have your destination chosen, and don’t hesitate. Try to land lightly, like you’re touching down from your broom. Do not let yourself be distracted, James. It should be the work of a moment to get from your head to mine but it’s an important one. Once you’re there, it should all feel more familiar.”

James nods his understanding. Regulus has described the process to him when he’s taken him with him in the past in preparation for when James would have to do this himself, and now the time has come. He takes one deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“At your leisure,” Regulus says softly and holds his eyes easily while he waits for James to prepare himself. James can still see a bit of his concern, but it seems as if he’s done as James asked him to and decided to trust him this little bit further.

James lifts his chin and lets his awareness go a little fuzzy. It helps him to focus in on how it feels to inhabit his own mind while reaching out and tracing the boundary of Regulus’s.

He’s here, Regulus is right there, open and patient. There’s just a bit of space between them.

James has already worked for months to close that space, filing it down one indiscernible centimeter at a time, even without his own knowledge. This is just the last little piece.

So he pulls himself inward until he has the concentrated version of himself backed up to the very fringes of his own shield and coiled tight with anticipation.

Then he surges forward, taking it at a sprint and closing in fast, right up to the edge of his mind.

And he leaps.

He feels it, that same flipping sensation of a sudden lack of steady surface beneath him and senses the enormous walls surrounding Regulus’s mind looming up as he nears, and he prepares for a landing that will jolt him all the way through and then settle his consciousness in foreign territory that has begun to feel very familiar.

But there’s nothing.

Nothing but the slight hint of his outstretched fingers brushing the edge of Regulus’s mind as he misses by a hair’s breadth.

James has a scant moment to realize that this is, in fact, very bad and the panic clenches a fist around his heart.

Then…

He doesn’t feel anything.

James isn’t sure what happens after that.

Things become very hazy. What faculties he usually devotes to the absent task of maintaining his body while he’s in Regulus’s mind have fallen out of view. He thinks his body might slump, his eyes might go blurry, but he doesn’t really know. It all feels very far away.

He’s aware of motion, a sort of slow lunge of the cloudy form across from his. He thinks it touches his body, but he doesn’t feel it. The little piece of him that’s separated from his greater mind has been cast adrift and anchorless in the wide open nothing without a mind to latch on to; the only thing he feels is a sort of vague bobbing, like the residual sensation of a ship rocking beneath his feet long after he’s supposed to have come ashore.

Things start to warp. James can’t tell if he’s seeing things or just thinking them, if that’s his own body going limp on the couch and Regulus’s terrified face as his mouth forms words he can’t hear or if he’s just imagining the whole thing. It’s harder still to tell because it’s like the scene plays out in slow motion: Regulus’s hands grip James by the shoulders and he can see the tendons chord with their strength, he shakes James and speaks his name as if he’s moving through molasses. A part of James twitches to life at having to witness Regulus’s fear, the same part that seeks out a way to fix all of Regulus’s problems so he never has to worry again, but it’s distant and action, direction, feels so exhausting.

James is vaguely aware of what Regulus had told him about losing himself during legilimency, and if dredging up the memory didn’t take such a colossal effort, he might recall how he’d said that a loss of one part of the mind could leave him bereft of what made him himself. As it is, the notion breezes past him, no longer a concern for someone who isn’t really someone at all.

He feels himself like a single, intricate snowflake, cast down from the sky on an entropic journey to the sea where he sticks to the surface of a body of water so massive it defies comprehension. Yet, they are made of the same material, just in slightly different forms. There’s absolutely nothing he can do as the greater form prevails and the structure of the snowflake, of his very self, begins to melt into cohesion. Soon he will be so unmade, so disparate that there will be no difference between the rest of the ocean and what part of it used to be him, or at least no difference worth worrying over.

James almost finds peace in that idea because at this point, as he finds himself paralyzed and bandied about by a carefree current, there’s really no other choice.

Choice itself seems rather silly.

There is no choice when one slight misstep has you tripping from subject of your own life to object of the universe’s whims.

It’s as he’s slipping away from that last fading idea of a final solution being dissolution that there’s a lightning strike.

It cuts through the slate grey of the snowy sky and dark sea with a shock of light so close and magnificent and blinding that it can be nothing but intentional.

The sudden appearance of it like a crack in the fabric of reality calls to James like it’s urging him to remember what it is to defy nature and the drag of inefficacy.

There’s a vacuum where James thinks he might have once expected to hear a shuddering rumble in its wake. The lack of one rings false in his ears, and he finds himself more aware of his unawareness. He looks around then and he can practically see the pieces of himself floating away and he was just letting them go. He scrambles to pull them back to himself, guided by another flash of glorious lightning so bright it leaves a stamp of color negative behind his eyes, but he can see or at least sense again and that’s enough.

He won’t waste it.

James finds himself holding dripping armfuls of material that make him up against the insidious tug of the sea trying to creep in and separate him into nothing again. He looks around frantically for some escape, anything to break the monotony of dead water as far as he can see, and there’s the lightning again, farther out but calling him all the same.

James swims for it, a graceless crawl that has splashes of stinging water clinging to his face and in his nose and burning the back of his throat. It would all be so much simpler to just lay back and sink into it, but he can’t. There’s something there, where the lightning touches down, that’s showing him the way home. He isn’t sure what home will look like, but with every meter won it becomes a bit clearer.

There’s a current helping him now, not a natural one but an unnatural one, wrestled from the grip of decay and in defiance of disorder to bring him closer and hold him together and James claws his way with it pushing him along, almost to that sacred spot where the lightning strikes again and-

James is yanked back into his own head by unyielding hands at the same time as he takes in a gasping breath that reanimates his body in the Come and Go Room.

The air feels so solid and heavy in James’s lungs that he coughs it back out, shuddering under the renewed weight of gravity and the force of his own materiality pushing back against it. He hears his name spoken with desperate hope and disbelief, as luring as the lightning strikes, and he makes to move towards it, to find his way home but he can barely control his body and jerks off the sofa and onto the floor instead.

“James!”

It’s easier being on the floor, fewer rules for how his muscles and tendons have to coordinate to keep him upright, and James closes his eyes against the onslaught of color and light. Instead, he digs his fingers deep into the shag rug and grips it like it’s the only thing keeping him on the planet.

He knows it’s not.

The thing keeping him on the planet, keeping him alive and himself, is rushing to his side and placing a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“James?” Regulus’s voice is hoarse and rough and so beautiful and real, thank Merlin. James follows the hand on his shoulder and tips into Regulus who makes his best attempt to catch him where he sprawls across Regulus’s legs and trades his grip on the carpet for fingers digging into Regulus’s thigh and sweater. James focuses on breathing and the feeling of each individual thread of Regulus’s trousers pressing into the side of his face. And the feeling of Regulus’s strong, unwavering hands holding tightly to his shoulder and wound into his hair.

That more than anything begins the silent process of placing James’s pieces back into their proper places.

They stay like that, a molten pile of limbs woven together on the floor holding tightly to one another.

When James gets his breath back and can think clearly again, his first thought is that he’s probably well on his way to leaving bruised fingerprints on Regulus’s leg and waist. He relaxes his hands and tries to push himself up so he can see Regulus’s face, but Regulus won’t let him go.

“Regulus,” James says, and it comes out as a whisper. He clears his throat and tries again.

“Regulus, I’m alright. I’m here now, I promise.”

Regulus’s fingers are gripping his hair so tightly it burns a little, but James can’t bring himself to mind the sensation. Feeling anything at all is such a miraculous experience after the hellish limbo he’d almost lost himself to, it reminds him he’s alive and present in time and space right when and where he’s supposed to be.

The when and where he had to be to meet Regulus. And to be saved by him.

James reaches a hand back and gently pries Regulus’s fingers out of his hair before he sits up. Regulus’s hand reaches right back out to snag in the collar of his shirt and he won’t meet his eyes.

“Reg, will you please look at me?” James ducks his head a little to try and catch his gaze.

Reluctantly, Regulus meets his stare under a lowered brow. James can’t quite read what he’s feeling, some nauseous mix of seething anger and a fear so potent it rattles his whole frame.

“You missed,” he hisses.

And for some odd reason that makes James laugh.

Regulus is scolding him. He almost permanently uninhabited his body and Regulus is scolding him like he’s just botched a goal in a Quidditch game.

“Yeah,” James says through his laughter. “Yeah, I fucking missed alright.”

Regulus is looking at him like he’s mad, and maybe he is. He did just lose his mind after all. James laughs harder at that thought and feels Regulus’s hand in his shirt collar tighten into a fist.

“Merlin save you if you think that was fucking funny, James,” he growls.

“No, I swear, it’s not that,” James has to clarify before Regulus makes the sensible decision to rid himself of James’s problematic influence on his life and kill him dead.

“You were gone, James. There was nothing of you left. Nothing.”

The waver in Regulus’s voice sobers him immediately to the reality of what Regulus just witnessed. He can’t even imagine what he would have done if their roles were reversed. He would have lost it if Regulus’s eyes were suddenly vacant of that sharp awareness and cunning. Worse than that, he would have had absolutely no idea what to do as Regulus inevitably drifted apart in the ether.

But Regulus had done something, whether he knew it would work or not. James recognizes his mark when he sees it now and it doesn’t surprise him in the least that when Regulus loses something he wants, he comes for it in a storm.

“But I wasn’t, Reg. Look,” James says, and pulls his hand from his collar down to where it lays over his heartbeat. “Still here.”

Regulus stares at where his hand rests on James’s chest. He seems to subconsciously claw his fingers in the skin and muscle beneath his shirt like he’s trying to dig them through James’s ribs to clench around his raw heart. James doesn’t find the thought of that as concerning as he should.

“You called me back, and I came, Reg.”

Regulus’s eyes flicker up to his.

“I heard you, and I came back.”

They stare at each other in silence as the truth winds its tendrils around them, binding them together. There’s still rage in Regulus’s eyes, and fear, along with a disbelief that James thinks might have to do with the fact that his voice urged someone to return to him and they actually listened.

It might be too soon for James to tell him that he’d hear him, follow him, anywhere, considering he just learned that himself. He suspects he’ll spend days, weeks, years if he’s allowed, half listening for the distant call of Regulus’s voice, whatever form it might take.

Then Regulus says, “I should have never let you do that.”

And yeah, okay.

“It’s not your fault, Reg. I’m the one who pushed.”

Regulus doesn’t look like he totally buys that, but he releases a deep sigh and his hands drop to curl lightly around James’s wrists. He hangs his head and James takes the opportunity to press his face into soft black curls. He closes his eyes and inhales the scent of Regulus’s hair, sort of smoky and lilac-y.

They stay like that, and he hears Regulus speak from far off.

“Say the magic words.”

“What?”

Regulus raises his head and meets James’s confused stare dead on.

“Say it.”

James has to wrack his brain for a minute before he stumbles on the right answer. He humbles himself to the truth of it.

“You were right.”

“I was right?”

“You were right.”

Regulus raises one hand to hold the side of James’s head. He squeezes tight like he’s trying to dent James’s skull and his mouth thins into a suppressed line while his eyes bore into James. Then he releases him and huffs out a breath all at once, closing his eyes again as the last bit of anger drains away.

“I know I was. Don’t ever question me again.”

James can hear the silent translation: Don’t ever scare me like that again.

“You and I both know I can’t make that promise,” James returns, finally breathing easily in the new levity of the atmosphere.

“You are going to drive me to violence one day, James.”

“I can’t wait,” James says through a grin, thrilled with the way Regulus gives him an unserious glare in return.

But then he grabs his arm and tugs him closer, and James is still too exhausted feeling like his whole body has been shocked back to life by a zap of electricity. He lets himself be maneuvered in between Regulus’s legs and pulled to lean back against Regulus’s warm body where he in turn leans against the couch. Regulus’s arms wrap around his shoulders and his chest like he’s prepared for someone to come along and try to snatch him away, and James honestly thinks it’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for him.

In theory, it shouldn’t be. It’s just someone he already knows likes him physically saying, Hey, I’d rather if you didn’t leave me right now, which seems like a given for the kind of relationship they have. But after what just happened, James reads into it shamelessly. It’s not just a Maybe don’t leave, it’s a I saw you fall and I just barely caught you. It’s a I need to remember what you feel like so I know what I have to lose. It’s a This is for both of us: me so I know I have you, you so you know I have you.

James grips his arms and pulls them tighter around him. He feels so anchored with the fire in front of them and Regulus behind and around him and the steady ground beneath them, holding them together.

He closes his eyes and counts out the seconds between the rise and fall of Regulus’s chest.

Then his eyes pop back open.

“Fuck, I almost forgot,” he says and pushes himself up slightly, not enough to leave the cocoon of safety Regulus has made himself into but enough to reach an arm over his leg and drag his bag closer.

“Forgot what?” Regulus’s voice is low and ashy, like he might have been far away from himself before James interrupted his thoughts.

James feels along the inside of his bag until he finds what he’s looking for and pulls it out.

“Your Valentine’s Day gift,” he says and holds it up to Regulus.

Regulus just stares.

Then he looks confused.

Confused and a bit awestruck.

He reaches out slowly and takes it from James’s fingers.

“How… Where did you get this?”

James grins. He loves catching Regulus off guard.

It had taken him a whole week to decide what to get Regulus for Valentine’s Day, his mind spinning through all the possibilities, all the things he wanted to do for him and what he wanted to say with his gift.

But in the end, it had turned out quite simple.

He remembered Regulus saying he didn’t get many gifts (a crime, punishable by death, truly). He probably didn’t ever celebrate Valentines Day before, James thought, had never gotten a card or chocolates or a sappy poem he’d cringe to read. And to everyone else they were relatively thoughtless gifts, a staple of cliches perpetuated for their convenience.

But Regulus had never done cliches. No one had ever done them for him, and James takes personal offense to that. He deserves to be showered in cheap chocolate and frilly cards so often he gets sick of them.

So James had taken it upon himself to choose something that couldn’t be misunderstood. Of course it bears his own touch; James can hardly help but imbue his gifts with a level of thought and personalization that makes them worthy of their recipient. But it doesn’t change the fact that James is giving Regulus a rose for Valentines Day.

By the time he had settled on the idea, he hadn’t given himself much time to source it. He’d written what had probably turned out to be a rather frantic and incoherent letter to his father, something along the lines of Dad! A boy! Valentine’s Day! I need a rose, it must meet these specifications:

Monty, ever the romantic, had risen to the occasion and promptly sent James a trimming from the rose bushes in their garden, the very ones he had planted for Euphemia out of an act of love that had spilled over from himself and into their daily lives. Being winter, it had arrived to James looking like nothing more than an unfriendly little twig, bare and thorny and still dusted lightly with snow, but Monty had sent him instructions for two potions that James had spent all night brewing in the advanced lab where he had found Regulus a few weeks before.

Now, as Regulus holds it lightly in his hand, the branch blushes with a deep reddish green along the stem, interrupted by small offshoots and noble, serrated leaves. The roses Monty grows don’t look much like the boring hothouse replicants that have found their way into the school today but instead have smaller, tougher blooms closer to their wild origins. James had asked for white flowers, thinking of the way they would look in against Regulus’s pale skin and silver rings and grey eyes. There are two open, frothy blooms on the stalk and three more buds in various states of arrival.

“It’s from our back garden,” James explains. “My dad grows them. Planted them for my mum. They’re sort of a Potter family tradition now.”

Regulus touches one light finger to the edge of a petal like he thinks he’s going to destroy it. It warms James to see him treat his gift and familial sign of affection with such reverence.

“You revived it, then?” Regulus asks, because of course he’s running through the logistics of growing roses in February.

“I did,” James says proudly. “And it won’t die, for at least a year, I think.”

That catches Regulus’s attention.

“You used the Primavera Potion?”

“I did,” James repeats through his grin.

“You brewed it?”

“All by myself.”

Regulus’s eyes narrow.

“Your father told you how, didn’t he?”

James scoffs but can’t wipe the smile away thoroughly enough for it to be convincing.

“Okay, and so what if he did? I don’t see why him instructing me detracts from my competence as a potioner.”

Regulus hums to himself like he doesn’t really buy what James is selling and goes back to admiring the rose.

Then he says, “It’s lovely, James. Thank you.”

James’s grin kind of hurts.

“You’re welcome.”

Regulus looks up to catch him smiling and his mouth quirks in response. He wraps one cool hand around the back of James’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss.

James has never experienced what Regulus kisses like out of gratitude, but it’s intent and unhurried and doting, all his formidable focus narrowed down to James and it melts him a little. James can only hang on.

When Regulus pulls away, he holds James’s face in one hand and studies him. James holds still so he can see what he wants to and so he can study Regulus’s expression: a little curious and a little sad and little soft.

James takes the moment to rearrange himself between Regulus’s legs like he was before, and Regulus huffs an amused breath at his entitlement. It’s his fault entirely if he thought James was just going to forget about the fact that he apparently gets to wrap himself up in Regulus now.

“Make yourself comfortable, why don’t you.”

“I will, thank you. Hardly need your invitation,” James replies primly.

Regulus just lays the hand holding the rose across James’s stomach.

James feels like he could die here. He’s so content, warm and safe and basking in Regulus’s attention and tenderness, still measured and portioned out so sparingly like he’s going to give away some terrible secret if he shows too much. But he also feels Regulus’s discomfort like a hook under his lungs. That is, until Regulus shifts behind him and reaches for his wand.

“Do you want to see something I’ve been working on?” Regulus asks quietly.

It’s hardly a question because he already knows the answer; James is as curious as an excited dog at all times, forever. He’s never once turned down a proposed idea from Regulus as long as they’ve known each other. But James recognizes it for what it is. He knew it was a bit of a gamble, getting Regulus a gift when he wouldn’t be able to reciprocate. That was part of the reason he settled on the rose because flowers could be written off as everyday, even if this particular one was not and was not meant to be. So Regulus is proffering something in return. A little revelation to balance the scales.

James won’t deny him, and he won’t deny himself.

“What’s that?”

James sees Regulus’s wand where he extends it before him to dim the fire in the hearth. Then he points it towards the ceiling and with smooth, careful motions, the air around them begins to change.

It darkens first, to a deeper black that implies endless depth, and James squints for a minute in an effort to get his eyes to adjust to the illusion. Then, pinpricks of light begin to appear, seemingly random but intentionally placed. They dim and flash slightly. Then there are clusters of them in some places, and swirling disks in others, picking up dusty gold and cool blue hues. Regulus fills the room with galaxies and spectrums of cloudy nebulae that swirl and expand and coalesce and dissolve in slow motion.

James feels himself suck in a devout breath and he pushes himself up. He looks around and the room is practically gone.

It’s just the two of them and the rose surrounded by the peaceful breathing of the starry universe.

He reaches out and drags a single finger through a nearby galaxy and laughs a little when its smears like pixie dust and disappears on his finger.

He looks back at Regulus in awe.

“Where’d you learn how to do this?”

Regulus just gives a shy shrug. He’s usually so confident in his own abilities when he knows he’s good at something; he clings to them like he’s collecting weapons he knows he’ll need in the future. But this one seems to undo him a little. It doesn’t fit with the person he projects. There’s no practicality to it, no application for it.

It’s just the product of a beautiful imagination belonging to someone with such a capacity for wonder and hope that they’d try to reshape the universe to fit in a room, just so they could show it to someone else.

James gets to be that someone else.

He tries to make himself remember what Regulus looks like in this moment, open to James in what he considers to be a gift of his talents and vulnerabilities.

And James…

James is feeling a bit too much right now.

He turns back around and settles against Regulus again.

He takes Regulus’s hand where it lays across his stomach and brings it to his lips, out of gratitude, out of a lack of words.

And he looks out into the universe.

It’s entirely possible that despite his revelations during the holiday and all the subsequent revelations that followed, James has still been walking around blind.

Because there are words for this feeling. And they aren’t crush, or infatuation, or even obsession.

He feels them kicking along around the edges of his psyche, and he thinks he’d better keep them there. Just for now.

They’ll be there when he needs them.

This isn’t a moment for words. James feels it as Regulus relaxes fully behind him. He keeps his hand covering Regulus’s covering the rose.

And for once in his life, he does nothing.

He lets the two of them drift together.

Lost in space.

Chapter Text

Regulus might have guessed that the sweet unreality of being with James Potter wouldn’t last.

It’s been a balm, soothing the sawtooth edges of his carrousel of worries until they felt distant and unremarkable, ever since that baring of truths and the kiss to seal it at the end of January. But a month later, Regulus finds that his worries are a pack of hellhounds and he’s a boy with a stick and they aren’t going to let him run anymore until he can beat them back far enough that he can buy himself another slim interval of time for a head start.

They didn’t even have the decency to descend on him in one crashing wave, which would have been shocking and the more painful for it but would have at least left the time until its crest untainted. No, instead they seep back into his days like the trickle of seawater bubbling under the door on a sinking ship.

It begins, as so many loathsome things do, with a letter from his mother reminding him of the upcoming Death Eater meeting. Regulus burns the letter as soon as he has a moment alone, but the feel of the paper still coats his fingers even as he twines them through James’s hair that evening.

Then Regulus remembers what he’s told himself he’ll accomplish at this meeting, and the prospect of braving Bellatrix’s mind is so mortifying that he stops mid-sentence when he’s explaining to James how legilimens go about tracing paths to certain thoughts.

He almost misses his next meeting with James when he sees the reminder on his calendar that it’s time to take the next steps with the Magma Corrosive. He’s unforgivably late and sweating again and fretting that he mucked up the measurements when he was adding the dragon scales by the time he falls back against the door of the Come and Go Room to James’s expectant face.

He can tell James knows something is up with him. He’s been distracted and fatigued and withdrawing lately, not out of any desire to do so but because his mind is rifting without any forewarning; where once he was so suited to handle the Horcruxes and the Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort, the inevitable return of his dark burdens no longer find his head to be the hospitable, if unwilling, nesting grounds it used to be.

Instead, they come up against the stark, bright counterpoint of James Potter.

The two things don’t go together, and like oil and water, they slip around each other in a nauseating battle for space. It’s just Regulus’s luck that his mind is the battleground.

Nevertheless, he can’t rectify what he will eventually have to do to end a war with what he has with James. There’s just no world in which Regulus, the boy who will destroy five Horcruxes even if it kills him, is the same boy who James Potter greets with an unfailing smile every time he sees him. And now that the dark burdens have taken up residence in his head again, he finds it hard to be in the same room as James, almost uncomfortable, like he’s being stripped naked and skinned raw from the inside and the out. He really only has the bandwidth to deal with one.

It's like that stupid lovely rose James had given him for Valentine’s Day. He’s absolutely unsuited to possess such a precious thing, but he’ll try his best. And where once he would have put it in the warded puzzle box to ensure its safety, so he knows where it is at all times and can take it out to look at it whenever he pleases, he finds the box already occupied by a Horcrux. There isn’t room for both. Or rather, there is, but Regulus refuses to mingle the pure and beautiful with the abominations. The rose has to remain elsewhere.

So his head is a bit like that right now.

And James—kind, patient, concerned James—tries his very best not to push him.

He’s offered help again, as per their agreement. But Regulus isn’t at that point yet. To him, that point is his deathbed. He’ll do absolutely everything he can to deal with his problems on his own and only when they force him to give up by wrapping a clawed hand around his beating heart will he let James take a crack at them. It’s dreadfully unfair to James; Regulus knows he’s setting him up for failure, and if James knew he was twisting their bargain to its very breaking point, he’d be illuminated with righteous rage both for and against him.

So Regulus had turned him down, assured him that there’s nothing to be done and he’s actually fine. James hadn’t believed him, but he’d done the next best thing and distracted him for an almost pleasant hour of legilimency and definitely not legilimency.

That’s when Regulus feels his problems are at their farthest, when he and James are learning from each other.

James learns how to jump the gap between his mind and Regulus’s, and Regulus learns that he can drag truly sinful sounds from James’s throat when he tightens a fist around a handful of James’s hair.

Regulus learns that despite his lack of subtlety in the everyday, James’s natural inclination to treat Regulus with care seems to translate to him moving through Regulus’s thoughts with surprising elusiveness, so much so that he doesn’t always immediately locate James when he tries to mask himself.

In turn, James learns that Regulus can’t stop his breath from catching every bloody time James grips his waist tight and puts teeth to that one spot just under the hinge of his jaw.

James wants. And Regulus knows it because it’s just his own want shown back to him, paintings of the same subject in two different styles. But as open and generous with his emotions as James is, Regulus refuses to treat them as a given. They still feel too rare, too unlikely for Regulus to just say fuck it, and give James what they both want.

It could be sex. Regulus is sure that’s a part of it, hopes it is or he’s going to be very disappointed and very confused if they ever reach that point and it’s suddenly not. But James has already made it clear that it’s not just sex he wants, it’s not just anything, and Regulus doesn’t know if that means it’s everything or if they’re still feeling their way through it with the understanding that this is something that’s going to take a hefty toll from both of them.

Either way, going any further than they have would require Regulus to mine a big, bloody chunk of himself to give to James. Because he knows that’s what James would do, what James is silently asking him if he can do every time they meet.

And it’s not that Regulus wouldn’t reciprocate. He doesn’t know if he would, but every day he gets to see James and listen to him and be listened to and be touched and held he gets closer to admitting to himself that yeah, he’d consider carving at this point.

The problem is that Regulus has already committed his pound of flesh to something else. And the something else is looming and hungry; it’s going to eat its way through Regulus, and Regulus is going to need every bit of himself to make sure there’s still something left of him when it’s finally sated.

And by the time that happens, Regulus doesn’t think James will want anything to do with its spit-out leftovers.

So his withdraw, while sad to watch play out across James’s innocently befuddled face, serves to also keep him at a painful but necessary arm’s length. For now, James seems to resign himself to Regulus’s arbitrary barriers.

That doesn’t mean they don’t get to enjoy what time they scrape out for each other. They’ve managed to meet twice a week, sometimes three times, since their eventful Valentine’s Day, and Regulus feels like he’s getting to know James over again. He certainly knows him already, his character and motivations and what matters to him, but they’re both missing great swaths of their lives where they were nothing more than hearsay to each other.

James explains to Regulus about his patented theory of magical intelligence. It’s surprisingly feasible and Regulus thrills to hear it. It’s just so James, to see the potential in everyone and put his time and attention into understanding how his friends work in tandem with the world around them. He can’t help the blush that warms his face when James walks him through his reasoning when deciding where to place Regulus in the theory.

So Regulus tells James about Barty and Evan’s protracted mating dance that had pushed Regulus and Dorcas into self-preserving apathy about the whole thing and how, after a particularly sexually charged game of chess between them in the common room, Dorcas had magnanimously offered to kill the both of them so they could continue dancing around each other as ghosts for all eternity.

James laughs at that and says it reminded him of Sirius and Remus, and he finds the whole thing just as funny as Regulus does in hindsight until Regulus offhandedly mentions his standing invitation to join Barty and Evan.

“Wait, your what?” James’s laughter disappears in a moment. They’re sitting on the carpet next to each other in the Come and Go Room with their legs stretched out towards the fire. James’s knee twitches like he’s just aborted a motion to get up and start pacing.

Regulus knows an opportunity when he sees one.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he says with practiced nonchalance. “They’re absolutely obsessed with each other and too aware of that fact to be insecure about a semi open relationship. I honestly think they just like to collect pretty people.”

James is looking at him like he’s running equations in his head.

“So they’ve asked you to…”

“It’s not serious, James,” Regulus chuckles. “They’ve just made it clear that they’re open to the idea if I ever decide I want to.”

James looks straight forward.

“Huh.”

Regulus can’t help but push just a little more.

“I think their exact words were ‘If you ever need to be reminded what good sex is, you come to us first,’” Regulus says while he pretends to examine a fake piece of lint on his sweater.

He doesn’t have to look to see James’s head whip back in his direction.

“No.”

Regulus meets his newly intense gaze.

“No?”

“You’re not going to do that.”

Regulus raises one eyebrow in amusement.

“Sorry, is that a prediction or an order?”

“It’s-” James groans and scrubs his at eyes under his glasses. “Of course it’s not an order, I won’t tell you what you can and can’t do.”

“But…” Regulus prompts.

James tilts his head back in Regulus’s direction.

“You’re being mean right now. I know exactly what you’re doing and it’s mean.”

Regulus can’t help the grin cutting across his face.

“But…?”

“But,” James concedes, “I don’t want you to.”

That’s better. Regulus leverages himself up on one leg and slings the other across James’s thighs in one smooth motion. James’s hand come up to his hips to steady him on instinct. Regulus likes this view of James better when he’s wringing unearned confessions out of him, likes how he gets the advantage of a few centimeters to parse all the details of James’s face.

“Because?”

“Because,” James begins slowly, “I really, deeply dislike the idea of you with anyone else.”

Regulus hums to himself as he traces the backs of his fingers lightly over James’s lips.

“How will you ever cope with that?” he wonders aloud.

He can’t stop the sharp gasp as James rolls and flips them so Regulus finds himself on his back on the carpet with James hovering above him. The way his body, all broad shoulders and capable arms, blocks the firelight and replaces its heat with his own leaves Regulus swallowing as he curls his fingers into James’s sweater.

“I suppose,” James says as he considers Regulus below him, like he’s deciding where to start, “I’ll just have to convince you that there’s better.”

Regulus doesn’t even try to hold back the stupid, elastic smile that stretches his mouth as James lowers his lips to his neck and goes about his convincing.

Their next meeting isn’t so carefree. Especially when Regulus has to deny James’s request to see him again later that week in favor of much less pleasant activities.

“I’m sorry, James, I’m just busy that night,” he offers lamely.

James runs a hand through his hair and leans against the wall where he’s pulled Regulus into an abandoned hallway.

“What about the night after?” Regulus suggests.

“Can’t. I’ve got an Arithmancy exam first thing the next morning.”

Regulus frowns.

“The night before?”

James shakes his head.

“It’s a full moon.”

Regulus nods in understanding. He knows James and his friends play some role in Remus’s monthly transformations, though he’s not exactly sure how. Still, it’s not something he would ask James to miss.

“Well, then I suppose-”

“Is it safe?” James cuts in.

“What?”

“The thing you’re busy with. Is it safe?”

James is looking at him without even bothering to hide his scrutiny. Regulus can only give a weak shrug.

James’s expression turns dark at that. He huffs an unamused laugh and turns away like he can’t even look at Regulus anymore.

“This is such bullshit,” he says to himself. “Is this going to be like Halloween again? Or holiday? Are you going to turn up half dead and scared out of your mind?”

“James-”

“No, Godric, I’m sorry.” James hangs his head and swipes a hand across his mouth like he’s trying to clear away the anger that pulls the corners into a frown. James takes one heavy breath and slumps forward a bit when he releases it.

“I’m sorry. I know I said I wouldn’t pry. And I didn’t mean to get cross with you. I just-” James reaches out and hooks his fingers with Regulus’s where they rest at his side. “I just wish this was something you would let me help you with.”

Regulus’s chest aches at James’s words. He almost wants to tell him; the relief of indulging James in what he wants wars with the terror of pulling James into his nightmare of a life. The terror wins out like it usually does.

“Don’t worry about it, James,” Regulus says as he runs his thumb across James’s knuckles. “It’s just one night. It’ll be fine.”

“Just one night,” James chuckles. “These ‘one nights’ are going to kill me.”

He gets the impression that what James really means is that these ‘one nights’ are going to end up killing Regulus. He’s probably not even wrong.

They part ways without agreeing on a convenient time to meet again.

It’s the last Regulus sees of James before he finds himself strapped back into suffocating formal robes mingling in the long gallery at the Carrow estate. The journey was uneventful, except for when his mother had made a quick movement and Regulus had flinched so hard there was no way she’d missed it. He couldn’t help it; while his mind may have folded up and tucked away the blurry memories of his last night at home, it was like his body kept the memories stored in his coiled muscles and racing heart. He couldn’t reason his way into convincing himself that Walburga was very unlikely to punish him in the same way so publicly. He just had to live with the symptoms of her proximity. When he flinched, Regulus caught her eyes narrowing, displeased that he even acknowledge his past bouts of poor behavior and their consequences. Regulus just sets his shoulders and faces straight ahead.

The Death Eaters seem to have changed since the last time Regulus saw them at the end of December. There are more of them, for one. And there’s an energy, like the Ministry raid served to bolster them and remind them that they are a formidable group of wizards and witches, deserving of fear and respect as their master has told them all along. Heads are held higher, eyes are sharper, drinks swirled with indolence as the members of Voldemort’s blossoming army seek to test themselves against each other and sort out the ranks.

Regulus spots Bellatrix across the room, her shrill laugh difficult to ignore. Some of the others look at her with distaste, but none try to engage her. They’d be idiots to pit themselves against someone so powerful, so unpredictable, so favored. And they’re right. People fully believe the validity of the danger Bella exudes for a number of reasons, but Regulus knows the real reason why she’s deadly.

Regardless of power or skill or political capital, more often than not the person who will win in a fight is the one who’s willing to do anything to win it. To cross lines and sacrifice principles, it all comes down to what you would do, not necessarily what you can. And Bella holds nothing holy. She doesn’t operate within the same tiers of priorities and taboos that the rest of polite or even just civilized society does. Regulus knows that’s what makes her so dangerous.

Needless to say, he’s not too enthused about having to step foot in the inscrutable mire of her mind tonight.

He’s more worried that he might find a few too many similarities to himself in there.

But it’s not worth worrying about yet, not until the meeting starts.

He shifts his gaze around the room from his place against a column, glad for the reputation of bored cruelty that keeps many people from intruding on his space or seeking his company.

The new faces are easy to spot, either cautious or overly eager, like they’re trying to prove their place here by challenging the veterans. Regulus sips his wine and holds back his cringe at their behavior.

Then he spots a few faces he really thinks he doesn’t deserve to have to see outside of Hogwarts.

Mulciber and Avery have dressed for the occasion and stand as tall as they can next to their fathers who introduce them around the room. Avery has slicked back his hair in a fashion he probably thinks makes him look older but really just leaves him looking wet. Mulciber shakes hands with a bit too much vigor.

From where his mother is conversing with Cygnus and Druella, Regulus can see that she’s watching Mulciber and Avery like they’re solicitors slowly but surely making their way to her front door. Regulus is glad he’s a full room away from her because he’s sure she’s connected the dots between his failure to receive the Mark in December and the sudden appearance of two more teenagers who suddenly seem to have an open invitation to something that was supposed to be Regulus’s alone.

“Not so special anymore, are we?” a smooth voice to his right says.

Regulus doesn’t have to look to know that Narcissa has posed herself next to him, a statuesque complement to his haughty lean.

“Just in time too,” he replies. “I was beginning to get lonely.”

People cast glances their way now, pretending their eyes are just tripping over them while they take in the sight. Both Regulus and Narcissa know how to wield the Black name, and they know how that power amplifies exponentially when you put two Blacks next to each other, two beautiful ones at that. They’re not above using it to remind people to keep their distance; they don’t have any business being within three meters of the oldest and most prestigious family in the country.

“How interesting your school days are about to be, now that you’ll have friends to join you,” Narcissa says and sips her wine. They’ve done this dance plenty of times before, spoken between words at parties and social gatherings where their honesty would not be appreciated.

“It would be rather presumptuous of me to burden them with my company,” Regulus sighs. “They’re both such busy and engaged individuals.”

Regulus can see Narcissa fighting a smile at the corner of her mouth.

“Still, you’ll have to keep an eye out for each other. I have no doubt they’ll be looking after you. You’ve been such an inspiration to them, I’m sure.”

“I wonder if I might convince them I can look after myself,” Regulus considers.

“A little demonstration never goes wrong,” Narcissa suggests.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He drains the last of his wine. “I heard Lucius took a bit of blow last month. How is he?”

Narcissa cuts him a look then directs her gaze towards where Lucius has joined Walburga, Cygnas, and Druella.

“Resilient,” she says. It doesn’t sound like a bad or a good thing from her mouth. “Though certainly not without complaint.”

“Not everyone is raised with a tolerance for pain.”

“Or a taste for it.”

Regulus has missed Narcissa dearly.

They keep each other company while they wait for the meeting to start and Regulus mulls over the implications of Avery and Mulciber’s presence. He’s almost curious to see if they’ll have the guts to approach him at school. They’ve never had reason to cross paths before; being a year older and much more brutish than Regulus is willing to endure, they’ve received the same indifference everyone else gets from him. If they suddenly think they’re equals, Regulus will have to do something to correct that mistake.

Regulus also wonders if Lord Voldemort had extended the invitation to Avery and Mulciber’s fathers or if they had decided on their own after the news of Regulus’s continued unmarked status saturated the ranks of Death Eaters. If the former, it’s possible Voldemort is wielding them against Regulus as a way to put pressure on him to seek a renewal of Voldemort’s approval. He doesn’t feel all that insecure next to Avery and Mulciber, but he wouldn’t put it past Voldemort to remind him that perhaps he isn’t all that special and perhaps he should try harder to distinguish himself. Voldemort seems like the kind of leader to string his disciples along by the threat of insignificance.

But there are alternatives, Regulus thinks as the party moves to the dining room where Voldemort awaits them. There are now so many Death Eaters present that the table fills with the Marked members and those of highest status first. Regulus, by right of his birth and stolen title of heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, earns a seat near the far end of the table. The rest of the Death Eaters and hopefuls crowd against the walls in a dark mass of anticipation.

Voldemort is in his element tonight. He basks under the attention of so many hanging on to his every word and the latent reverberations of their success at the Ministry. Regulus doesn’t want to admit it, but power suits him like he was born for it.

But he doesn’t allow himself to linger long. He has a mission tonight, and he’s going to need all the time he can get.

He settles himself into an attentive but unbothered posture that he can maintain without much effort and sets his sights on his cousin all the way at the other end of the table as he sinks into his mind.

He runs. He leaps.

He catches himself just before he stumbles into her shields.

Before him stretches an impenetrable thicket of thorned brambles.

The brambles look dead, just thick ropes of dry wood with mean hooks curling off them, winding around each other and stacking up above Regulus. But they’re only dead in appearance, something Regulus learns when they groan as one vine deep within the thicket slithers into a new position. Regulus steps back and takes in the whole mass of thorns and branches and sees coils of vine shifting and readjusting at intervals, always discontent, always searching.

It's a horrifying obstacle.

Regulus peers through the gaps between vines, trying in vain to see through it. Instead he spots things inside: snakes, and papery moths, and sharp-beaked birds with glassy eyes in a garden gone bad. In a way, it reminds him a bit of a dark fairytale foil to James’s shield. A living shield is rare enough, product of powerful magic and a powerful mind, but James had also shared his plans to populate his shields with birds and other animals to partake in the sentience. Regulus can’t help but think that he would recoil from the lifeless distortions he sees now.

He spends too much time looking for a loophole, finding none, and in the back of his mind he hears the foreboding tune of some muggle nursery rhyme urging him forward: Can’t go under it, can’t go over it, we’ll have to go through.

Stepping into the brambles is worse than any shield Regulus has ever had to maneuver. At least with Voldemort’s he’d known the goal and had the power to control his success or failure if he could move through it fast enough.

Bellatrix’s offers no such comfort.

Regulus has to make himself as small as he can and navigate carefully in between the vines. Clawing thorns reach for the edges of his consciousness from all directions, and Regulus can feel his heartbeat all the way back in his body. He tries to steady it so that Bella doesn’t feel it in her own mind.

Regulus picks his way through so painfully slowly, bending himself into impossible shapes to accommodate the vines, ducking and crawling and holding himself still as death for untold minutes. When he hears a rustle and then the telltale creak of the briar shifting like it’s in pain, he holds his breath and prepares to move in any possible direction to avoid a slow wandering vine creeping his way.

The process stretches and twists his mind like taffy, working it out of shape and pounding a hot migraine into Regulus’s head that he knows is going to hit him like a falling rock when he makes it back into his body. Bellatrix’s shields are singular in their trickery; while so many others have a convenient catch, the one caveat to hers is don’t fuck up. The cynical little voice that narrates portions of his life acknowledges the advantages that being a Black gives him in this situation. He was raised not to fuck up, the consequences being somewhere near as severe as they are right now, so he’s sort of used to the impossible task of weaving his way up and down, around and through the maze of thorns and the lack of forgiveness that awaits him should he fail. It crosses his mind that maybe the catch is You'd better be a Black.

He spots a gap ahead of him and has to restrain himself from abandoning all caution and lunging for it. He thinks if he allows himself to remain concealed in the vines for another moment they’re going to wrap around his chest and squeeze, digging claws between his ribs in search of soft organs. But he holds himself still and eases his way between a narrow pass then under a sagging drape of bramble and finally, finally out of Bella’s shields.

Regulus never thought he’d be grateful to be in his cousin’s mind, but here he is, sweating and panting and trying his damnedest to pull himself together so he can find what he needs and get the fuck out.

Bellatrix’s mind is a boiling spring of strange currents, and Regulus does his best to avoid the vents releasing steady streams of scalding mania that coax her whole psyche into an unpredictable, swirling convection. He eases himself in but has little control over where he ends up, pulled down in one moment and dragged along by a current in the next, spit out at the top of her thoughts and stung by piping hot intentions he’s powerless to avoid. It’s like her mind is playing with him, unaware as she is of his presence. He quickly loses hope of following a train of thought like he had with Lucius and instead sets his sights on observing as much as he can as it eddies around him.

He sees maniacal memories from her childhood: Cygnas’s tantrums taken out on Druella, Druella’s severity taken out on her daughters. Bellatrix’s early fascination with the twitching and squeaking of small furry creatures subjected to her experimentation and the tears on her sisters’ faces when she directed those same attentions towards them.

He sees the web of games and lies and facades she’s woven with the care of Arachne to pin Rodolphus where she wants him and entertain herself when the distasteful role of wife gets to be too boring.

He sees a hint of something darker, a memory so central to her that it’s crossed the line into her character. It’s from the early days of her marriage, when Rodolphus still hadn’t quite grasped what he’d gotten himself into. He’d still been expecting her to fall into line, to accept the submission he felt was owed to him. He’d liked to throw her around back then in a foolhardy attempt to remind her of her place. She was a Black, damn it, weren’t they supposed to be upstanding and regal and dignified like that obedient little sister of hers? Lucius was going to get an heir out of her and never have to waste a breath telling her to shut up and sit down like Rodolphus would. Bellatrix had better learn quickly what she was good for because Rodolphus was not a patient man

And oh, how she had hated that. Her sister’s name in his dirty mouth, his lazy entitlement like she wasn’t born leagues above him, his entitled hands when he grabbed for her to show her just how he was meant to have her. No one treated a Black like that and the dagger in her fist, slashing lines against chest, drove him back. He’d put hands to the wounds—disappointingly shallow—like he hadn’t realized he could bleed. That was just fine with Bellatrix; she would take it upon herself to remind him.

Then he’d spit names at her, tiresome, uncreative ones like bitch and whore as if he could think of no better insult than her existence as a woman. She’d cackled madly at that and told him that if he didn’t like her as a woman then she’d do him the courtesy of removing the offense.

She turned the dagger on herself and rammed it low into her stomach.

Even then, with her own hot blood seeping over her fingers, she couldn’t stop laughing at the look of horror dawning on his face as he realized there was no way he was going to win this little game with her, not when she had just damaged any means of providing him with a son beyond repair. He would have to lie about her infertility for the rest of his life, dodge questions to avoid revealing the nature of their marriage and just how mad his wife really was.

The joke was on him though. She had no intentions of hiding her disinterest in sanity.

The wound had healed eventually, but the damage was done. She would not be made into a mule. She would not be forced to carry anything, child or otherwise. And darling Rodolphus would spend the remainder of his days dragged along and deeply aware of the fact that a leash works both ways as long as you refuse to let go of it.

Regulus feels the urge to push himself away from that memory like an unrelenting itch, but he can’t move, can’t give himself away. Instead he watches it play out and tries to quell a tremor before Bellatrix catches shaking him apart.

Her thoughts and memories flash before him like slides from a projector gone out of control, but it doesn’t take as long as he’d feared before he finds something he can work with. He supposes Bella’s unhealthy reverence for the Dark Lord was bound to make an appearance sooner rather than later, and he clings to the memory of her vicious, accurate spells at the Ministry attack and the feeling of triumph that had filled her as she apparated away. It leads him to a veritable shrine of her musings on Lord Voldemort. There are visions of their glorious future under his instruction, her at his right hand always, memories as his confidant when all others were deemed unworthy, and as a token of its truth: a golden cup held close and sacred, her reward for unwavering service until the end.

It doesn’t matter to her what it is. The fact that it’s important to the Dark Lord is enough for her, and Regulus spots it, tucked away with the other treasures of her family where all things of immeasurable value belonging to Britain’s greatest wizarding dynasties are kept.

Regulus’s heart sinks with despair as he recognizes the hewn stone and thick metal doors of a Gringotts vault. He can almost hear their echoing reverberations as they swing shut and seal the third Horcrux off from every living thing.

He wants to sink then, just give up and get sucked down into the chaos of Bellatrix’s mind. The battling currents and vents almost feel like a blessing, removing the temptation of fighting against everything as it piles up on him.

Because how the hell is he ever meant to pluck a Horcrux from a Gringotts vault? From Bellatrix Lestrange’s Gringotts vault no less? He wants to sob with the injustice of it. He’s sixteen! And he feels so very sixteen right then. Not the kind of sixteen he’d imagined as a fifteen-year-old, when they all looked so mature and confident with that mysterious one-year gap bestowing untold knowledge and experience on them. But the kind of sixteen he bets adults must imagine, the kind that feels so unbearably young it’s almost painful, like they shouldn’t have been born yet, the world’s just too cruel right now to accommodate someone so artless. It’s an inexplicable cognitive dissonance to look at himself as someone much older and simultaneously pity himself for not being that person, but if anyone’s been aged beyond their years in recent months, he’s sure he’s won that title.

He grasps at the shore of Bellatrix’s mind when a current spins him closer, not so much out of any drive to do so as it is out of instinct. He doesn’t feel the motivation that got him through the shield and kept him alert and attentive the whole time. Instead he feels pulled down like he been transformed into glass: solid on the outside but secretly molten on the inside, sinking in slow motion under his own weight while nobody notices for centuries.

He ducks into the brambles and lets the tangle swallow him up, twisting through the briars absently. The whole thing comes across much less threatening when there’s no hope waiting for him on the other side.

That is, until he just barely brushes up against a hanging thorn.

Then he’s reminded quite quickly that he has a fondness for staying alive and that he’s not currently in a place that’s keen on supporting that endeavor.

The whole thicket shivers with awareness at his contact, and he has one fleeting moment when he shivers with it before he feels a thorned vine wrap tight around his ankle and yank.

Regulus thinks he must flinch in his body; Bellatrix’s shields are meant to do damage without question and the thorns push into his consciousness. He pulls against the vine even as he sees others slithering his way. Dead-eyed birds hop close to stare at him curiously and striped snakes whirl themselves around the vines. He can sense the whole connected consciousness hone in on his intruding presence and prepare itself to take him apart and see what he is.

Regulus has about three seconds to save his life before Bellatrix either rips this piece of his mind apart, and the rest of him with it, or dissects him enough to determine his identity and reveal him to Voldemort. He’s not sure he has a preference at this point. Because he’s absolutely positive he would receive no leniency from her, that any loyalty she might feel towards the Blacks is far outstripped by her unwavering fealty to Voldemort.

But that-

That might work in his favor.

Regulus unlatches all of the boxes in his mind where he had carefully stored his unspeakable brush with Voldemort’s consciousness and flings them wide. He lets the memories pour in: the darkness, the emptiness, the throbbing wrongness of it all. He narrows his focus to just those short, transformative minutes of his life and his intimate knowledge of the ring Horcrux and the little piece of himself caught in the snare of Bellatrix’s shield begins a metamorphosis.

Because if he can’t hide his presence from Bellatrix, he needs to make sure she has no reason to question it.

When he’s shrouded himself in the black, patched-together heartbeat and his best memory of the sentient, watchful feeling of the Horcrux, he unveils himself to her.

The vines around him freeze in their pursuit.

He can feel her take in the presence in her grasp and imagines how she must see it: as a shifting, throbbing, discontent mass of darkness all too similar to the man sitting next to her.

Her fear snaps through the briar like frostbite. Just like that the whole thicket groans with the sudden retreat of the vines away from his form. He holds himself still and continues to exude that wrongness and authoritative displeasure, turning over everything he knows of Voldemort and projecting it to her to mask his true self. The brambles shrink away from him as he slowly stands, and they arch further to create a neat tunnel in either direction, welcoming him in or escorting him out, whichever he should please.

Regulus is vaguely aware of Bellatrix at the other end of the table stone-still and ducking her head slightly. She doesn’t even look at Voldemort, too afraid of seeing some confirmation that she’s offended her master written on his face.

Regulus takes the opportunity to send out one more wave of irritation and she flinches. Then he limps to the edge of her shields. Just before he tips away from her mind, he lashes a single whip of intention towards the briars, a punishment and warning against resisting her master’s claim to her mind. The vines curl in on themselves in contrition.

Then Regulus falls back into himself.

His body is not the same as when he left it.

He’s sweating profusely, can feel it running in channels down his spine, and for a second he thinks he’s going to pass out right on the table. The neck of his robes are choking him and his head beats so violently that his vision blurs with the rhythm.

But he keeps his eyes open, his muscles locked even as his digs his fingers into his leg under the table and watches Bellatrix and Voldemort very carefully.

It had taken him the full two and a half hours of the meeting, and Voldemort is offering closing remarks to his followers. Next to him Bellatrix holds herself very still with the uncertainty of her fate.

Regulus really, really needs to stop playing it this close. The number of times he can lie to psycho murderers and gregarious cult leaders and get away with it is most definitely finite, and he’s using a lot of them up on stupid shit that he should be avoiding in the first place. If his ruse worked the way he hopes it did though, if Bellatrix thinks Voldemort was in her head for his own purposes and she caught him by accident and pissed him off, if she’s terrified of mentioning her mistake to him and all too willing to let it pass as bygones when he doesn’t bring it up again, then Regulus might just live to lie another day.

Voldemort closes the meeting and Bellatrix and Regulus remain in their seats just a touch longer than the others, Bellatrix in expectation of punishment, Regulus to determine the likely length of his life.

But to both their inexpressible relief, Voldemort just rises from the table without a second look at either of them.

Regulus lets his shoulders slump, his one concession, and Bellatrix follows Voldemort away from the table with her eyes.

The tension drains out of her form as she accepts her safety.

Then she notices Regulus still sitting there.

He’s up and out of his seat before she can formulate any robust suspicions as to why he might have had reason to watch that little interaction play out. He almost tips over with the sudden rushing of blood away from his head and steadies himself on a chair. It’s clear that he’s not up to his usual standards of performance, and he needs to get out of there before anyone can call him out on it.

Down the table, Bellatrix stands, her eyes still on him.

Regulus doctors his gait into something unhurried but with direction like Oh goodness, look at the time, I simply must be getting back to school before my classmates realize I’m a terrorist, I’ll have to stay for drinks another night. But Bellatrix has the unfortunate luck of having sat on the side of the table closer to the doors and is well on her way to intercepting him. If he can just get to the parlor and in the fireplace, he’s absolutely sure she won’t dare ask Voldemort about his presence in her mind and he’ll be home free.

But if she can get him to herself, even for just a minute…

There’s no telling what questions she’ll ask, how much she suspects. And Regulus is a damn good liar, and Bella is a damn good interrogator. That wouldn’t be a short battle of wills.

She’s coming up on his left, and he’s honestly considering pulling his wand and invoking some sort of emergency evacuation conditions when he feels someone link arms with him on his right.

“A rousing meeting, wasn’t it?” Narcissa drawls next to him.

Regulus is still trying to reign his heartbeat back in from when it spiked at her sudden presence, but he gets with the program real quickly.

“We certainly have our work cut out for us it seems,” he says in return, since he has no actual memories of what was discussed to comment something of substance. Through the crowd, Regulus sees Bellatrix slow now that Regulus isn’t alone. Her eyes narrow at her sister, and for once Regulus is glad that Narcissa is married to a stuck up prat like Lucius because she’s technically not a Black anymore and not available for Bellatrix to do with whatever she’d like.

Narcissa glides through people like a swan with Regulus at her side and completely under her direction. He thinks she can feel his tremors and the heat pouring off of him that might be a fever he developed in the last two hours from the mental strain. He knows intimately now how fear can stop a rabbit’s heart, the insidious way it can infiltrate a body and poison its mechanisms. He’s leaning on her more than he means to, but she bears it with grace, makes him look graceful by association.

They cut through the crowd without interruption and Narcissa has the good sense to steer him upstairs to a study with a fireplace instead of to the public one in the parlor where Bellatrix might think to head them off.

She pulls him over to the hearth and stuffs a handful of floo powder into his fist.

“I’ll make your excuses to your parents,” she says as she replaces the jar on the mantle. In the dark of the study, her platinum sheet of hair catches the moonlight, and Regulus half thinks she’s some kind of gracious spirit come to help him out of his worst mistakes.

She tugs him to the side and pushes him gently into the fireplace.

“Narcissa-”

“No,” she cuts him off, ducking to meet his eyes. “Whatever angle you’re playing, I don’t want to know, Regulus.” It’s not out of apathy but the opposite. They both know the dangers of sharing knowledge, the necessity of respecting secrets.

They hold their stare for another second.

“Thank you,” Regulus breathes.

Narcissa nods sharply and steps back from the dark stone of the hearth.

Regulus throws the floo powder at his feet and watches Narcissa through the green flames as she turns towards the door.

He lands in Hogsmeade and stumbles out of the fireplace.

Then he starts to run.

It’s clumsy with his weakness and the bright fear still cycling through his bloodstream, renewed in each chamber of his heart as it passes through and carrying its alarm to every distant piece of his body. He slips on the snow more than once on his way up the hill towards the castle and his hands and knees are wet and freezing by the time he makes it inside.

He keeps running.

He grabs the ring from his dorm, somehow mustering enough subtlety not to disturb his house or Evan and Barty.

He trips through the dark, arching corridors, through sleepy puddles of moonlight cast from the windows and hears his panting breath in the cold air and off the cold stones as he winds his way down, down farther into the dungeons. He feels like the only person in the whole world right now and would give nearly anything to see a friendly face: Dorcas with her abrasive concern, James pulling him close and asking to help, Sirius.

Regulus would really like to see his brother. The brother he remembers from his childhood who could fix anything with a smile and protect him from dangers both real and imagined.

No, he scolds himself even as he feels tears of panic and grief and frustration push at the back of his throat. He banishes the thought of his brother back to its distant island in his mind. He won’t allow it again until he can protect Sirius.

Like he’s about to.

He throws open the door to the advanced potions lab with little regard for the noise. A flick of his wand has it closing and locking behind him.

He wracks the storage area for his glamoured cauldron of extremely illicit Cultured Magma Corrosive where it’s been sitting peacefully in a tub of water with no one the wiser.

He remembers his sense of self-preservation when carrying the apparatus over to a workbench, not in any way ready to lose a limb to his own desperate foolishness.

When he removes the crucible from the water, the potion slowly shifts back into its acidic translucent orange color. Regulus waits the recommended five minutes then drops a stray piece of paper in and watches it dissolve into nothing like a snowflake on hot tea.

Then he withdraws the Horcrux from his pocket and places it on the table.

His heart is beating wildly for an entirely different reason now. The fear is still there, chasing him from the thorny snare in Bellatrix’s mind and from the innocuous little ring gleaming dully in the moonlight. But it’s more the anxiety, the months of work that went into the potion and everything that could change in the next minute if he’s right.

He lifts his wand with a shaking hand and levitates the ring.

It turns slowly in the air as he directs it over the potion.

Then he lowers it gently into the cloying orange liquid and watches as it sinks gradually to the bottom.

And he watches.

And he waits.

And he keeps waiting, even as he feels his breathing break rhythm again and get shallow and useless. Even as his face heats with the effort of holding himself still. Even as a hot tear slips out of his eye without his knowledge.

Because the ring just sits there at the bottom of the potion that had killed a whole group of scholars and could only be stopped by leagues of frigid subarctic waters.

Regulus stares at it.

He levitates it back out and douses it in the tub of water.

He packs the potion away and stores it on a forgotten shelf of the closet.

He shuffles back out to the dark room and looks at the dull piece of metal and stone cast aside on the workbench.

It pulses faintly in time with Regulus’s splitting headache.

Regulus stalks forward and grabs it. He hurls it across the room with all his might and one choked scream as it pings off the wall and bounces to the floor.

Then he slides down against the leg of the table until he’s on the floor with it and glares at it through blurry tears where it lays completely unbothered some meters away.

Chapter Text

March arrives.

James doesn’t know how to feel about it.

There’s an odd sense of suspension about the castle and James’s life. The number of confrontations James and Lily have had to break up in the hallways has escalated as a result of the student body drawing definitive lines in the sand and eying each other suspiciously from either side.

There are those outspoken members of affluent families who hold their heads high and say whatever bigoted things they want that are just this side of not quite endorsing the Death Eaters. James even heard Avery and Mulciber holding court in the library sharing thinly veiled accounts of what might have been one of their meetings. He can’t help but think it’s a bit dull-witted to admit to that kind of association so freely. He wonders what Regulus thinks.

Then there are those who are clearly itching to take a swing at them. Sirius and Marlene fall among them. So does James sometimes.

The rest of them occupy a nervous middle ground. They lean to one side or the other but won’t say which out of fear of the repercussions. Most of the wizarding population of Britain seems to fall into that category.

The fourth group are the muggle-borns. They keep their heads down and their guards up and travel in numbers. More often than not the Marauders set off in sets of two to accompany Lily or Mary to their classes, something they try not to call attention to but that’s noticed all the same.

After Valentine’s Day, Lily and Mary had seemingly developed one shared, impenetrable suit of armor against the world. They still have time for their friends of course, and they’re hardly different in the common room or the Great Hall, but James doesn’t miss the silent communication between them. Their relationship, new as it is, is a rare and wary thing orbiting around their protection of one another. It’s something only they can understand fully. James has hope that one day they’ll be able to explore new facets of it without fear being one of the central forces keeping them together.

Regulus has been off as well.

James had made a point to look for him at breakfast the day after he’d said he would be busy and hadn’t seen him. When he’d pulled Dorcas aside, she’d told him he’d taken ill.

James’s chest had hurt with the force of containing his incredulity and outrage. He doesn’t know how he’s expected to let Regulus go home and come back sick or hurt after every time. It would be different if it was once or twice. It was different. But this is the third time in a row, and that’s a pattern if James has ever seen one. He’s left with his helplessness and his anger and nowhere to put it.

It had abated a bit by the time they met again. Regulus looked nearly normal when James next saw him, if a little paler than usual, but there was something different about him. He spoke a little sharper, kept readjusting his posture, like he was late for something or thought there was another person in the room with them.

James wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. They’d barely had three weeks of lovely, tentative testing of waters that had felt giddy and lighter than air in James’s stomach. Even when Regulus had started drawing into himself again, it wasn’t to such a degree that James found him unreachable. After Regulus had gone home again though, it definitely wasn’t the same. He reminded James of how he’d been at the end of some of their transfiguration lessons, dissatisfied and driven by some urgency he refused to share.

They’d been practicing what Regulus called “following currents.” James had mastered jumping the gaps between minds in late February. He’d been a bit surprised when, at the meeting after Valentine’s Day, Regulus had invited him to try bridging the gap again on his own. When asked if he wasn’t concerned James might miss again and end up in that terrifying no man’s land, Regulus had just shrugged and said James knew the consequences. He had done it once and the worst had happened and if that didn’t teach him a lesson then frankly he deserved to dissolve into nothing.

James hadn’t missed again.

In their more recent lessons, James found the process of following currents of thoughts to be reasonable in theory but much more difficult to carry out. Gone was the serene, lapping shoreline James had encountered that night Regulus’s mind had glowed for him. Instead, the currents in Regulus’s ocean were troubled and strong like riptides and almost all of them eventually led down, deep into Regulus’s consciousness where the weight of his psyche got heavy and dark until James had to let go and allow himself to float back up or risk getting lost.

When it had happened last week multiple times in one night, James had finally asked if it was always like this.

Regulus had sighed and closed his eyes, losing some tension that had kept him animated before.

“No, it’s not,” he’d said, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry, I’ve just been… distracted lately.”

“Distracted by...?” James had ventured.

Regulus measured him with his eyes where he sat drawn up at the other end of the sofa. He looked to the fire.

“Does it have to do with your family?”

“Not really,” Regulus had murmured into his hand where it propped up his face. James often forgot how young Regulus is behind his comportment and competence. Moments like this were good to remind him.

“Is it the Death Eaters then?” he asked carefully.

Regulus didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

James swallowed and gathered his courage.

“Did they… do something to you?”

He was really at such a disadvantage here, not knowing how involved Regulus was with it all yet or what exactly was expected of him. He didn’t know what the meetings were like or who was there or what they did. But he’d keep wading his way into this blind if it meant he might strike upon the thing that was reshaping Regulus’s mind to its gravity.

Regulus had sighed again and pulled himself up, preparing to brush off the whole thing.

“It’s nothing, James. One of my plans just didn’t work how I’d hoped it would and now I’m sort of back at square one.”

“Oh.” James hadn’t expected that and didn’t know what kind of plan might be on the table here. It made him think of the vitriolic words Regulus had sliced him with during that one ill-fated confrontation after the Ministry attack, when Regulus had insisted that he knew what he had to do and that James would hate it. He certainly didn’t like it now, if only for how it seemed to be taking up Regulus’s every waking moment and worrying him into a stupor.

“I’ll figure it out,” Regulus said before James could offer his help yet again.

James had sighed and let the whole thing go.

A welcome distraction comes in the form of Remus’s birthday on the 10^th, for which Sirius has harangued the whole House into organizing a poker tournament. They set up tables around the common room and play Bowie records and charm their watered down alcohol into chintzy cocktails and the whole thing ends up feeling like a bunch of teenagers’ idea of a high-end casino. James can’t complain one bit though; it seems as if Gryffindors as a rule are not especially gifted gamblers and the occasional outcry from a bad hand or a big win across the room fuels the competition at the other tables.

Remus does quite well for himself, submitting games of chance and strategy to the same focus he does his school assignments. Sirius seems to be more interested in perching on the arm of his chair and trying to sneak his way into Remus's lap like a long-legged showgirl than he is in actually gambling. Remus only shoves him off when his audible gasp gives the whole round away.

James personally loses a rather substantial sum of money to Mary who has the grace to look absolutely unsurprised by her success as she stuffs his coins into her bra. They’re all unlucky enough to lose funds to Dorcas. Peter argues for her disqualification after a few rounds because “She’s a Slytherin, honestly. We didn’t stand a chance.”

Regulus smiles through the story when James tells him at their next legilimency lesson. They haven’t actually gotten a whole lot of legilimency done today. Regulus had arrived looking tired enough to go right to sleep, so James had taken it upon himself to subtly steer conversation away from burdensome mental work and towards a light-hearted topic instead. He thinks it helped that while they talked James had scooted in close to Regulus on the sofa and draped an arm over the back. Regulus had almost subconsciously tipped into him as the evening progressed, resting his head on James’s shoulder and leaning against his chest. James plays with the ends of his curls and focuses on keeping the prolonged giddy squeal in the back of his head.

“I would never have thought of that for a birthday,” Regulus says. His words are thick and quiet like he’s fighting off the edge of sleep. James would tell him to stop resisting if he thought he had any chance of success.

“Well Sirius likes a good party and Remus likes being right so it wasn’t that hard for him to figure something out,” James chuckles. Then it occurs to him.

“Wait, when’s your birthday?” he asks, alarmed. “I haven’t missed it, have I?”

Regulus tilts his head to give him a knowing look so that James is aware that he’s magnanimously letting an opportunity to fuck with him pass by.

“No, it’s in June. June 25^th,” he trails off.

“Merlin, is it always during exams? That’s bloody evil.”

Regulus snorts.

“It’s not so bad. I already told you I don’t really like parties.” He brushes his fingertips over James’s hand where it rests on his leg. “And there are worse things than exams anyway.”

“What’d you reckon you’ll do to celebrate this year?” James asks, curious what Regulus Black considers a proper acknowledgement for his own birthday.

Regulus gives a dry laugh that sort of morphs into a groan at the end and turns his face into James’s neck. James suppresses a shiver and waits for him to provide some explanation for that reaction.

“Maybe I’ll get a tattoo,” he mutters.

“Really?” James can’t help his surprise. He had no idea Regulus might be interested in something like that. He’s having a bit of trouble wrapping his head around it.

Regulus gives him a long look, trying to find something in James that he can’t name, and gives up.

“More relevant, what are you doing for yours?” Regulus deflects. “And don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it cause you won’t convince me you’re not ridiculously excited.”

James laughs at that.

“Honestly, I haven’t though. It’s always like this where we spend all our efforts planning Remus’s birthday and then forget mine’s right around the corner.” He’s a little warmed by the idea that Regulus already knows when his birthday is, though he supposes that the Marauders always made it the whole school’s problem in the past. “I’ll let you know when I come up with something. You’ll be the first to know.”

“Oh, joy.”

That probably shouldn’t make James smile wider.

They sit there for a few more minutes, watching the fire, and James has the thought that if this is what he ends up doing on his birthday in two short weeks, he’d be perfectly content. Regulus’s rings glint in the orange light as he traces his fingers in some unknowable pattern and James’s mind wanders to the ring on the chain around his neck. The chain lies just beneath his hair, a secret that only they know. And just because he can, James slides his fingers through Regulus’s curls so he can follow its line against the hot back of his neck. He feels Regulus tense against him but smirks with the knowledge that it’s not out of discomfort.

Then Regulus looks back up at him and holds his gaze for a long moment.

“Do you want your birthday gift?”

That catches James off guard.

“What? You already have a birthday gift?”

Regulus just keeps looking at him, as he’s prone to doing when James asks questions that he’s already answered. James scrambles for reason.

“Why- how are you this organized?” he says, sort of to himself. “Shouldn’t it wait till it’s like actually my birthday?”

“It could,” Regulus acknowledges. Then he pushes himself to sit upright in a smooth motion that’s all cat. “But I kind of want to test something.”

“What’s that?” James can’t help but ask. Regulus has that look he gets when he’s got an idea, one he already knows will work but that he wants James to see work.

“All our mind games have gotten me thinking about cognitive magic. What kinds of spells can distort thoughts and alter memories. You made the point that legilimency has always been so solitary that there’s really not much known about what it can actually do.”

James is pretty sure Regulus made that point but it’s nice of him to share credit. He nods for him to continue.

“I thought,” Regulus says, “that if I cast a spell while performing legilimency on you, I might be able to make the effects more precise. I might even be able to bury an idea in your head without you knowing about it.”

James stares at him.

“You want to experiment on me.”

“Yes.”

“By doing… what?”

Regulus looks a bit too self-satisfied with James’s wariness.

“Nothing drastic. I just want to see if it will work,” he says. “If you agree to it, and you’re welcome to say no, I’ll give you your gift and explain what it is then take it back and save it till your actual birthday. After I take it back, I’ll try to do something between legilimency and obliviation-”

“And what?”

“Let me finish,” Regulus scolds. “I’ll isolate the memory of what your birthday gift is and bury it in your head with a key phrase. If it works how it should, it’ll be like you just forgot what your gift is completely until I say the phrase. Then you should remember the whole thing.”

James squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his hands under his glasses.

“Literally how do you come up with this stuff? This is absolutely mad.”

“Is that a no then?”

“Of course it’s not a no, let me finish,” James parrots. “It’s mad but it’s also bloody cool.”

Regulus’s cheeks turn a little pink as he appraises James’s face for signs of a lie.

“Do you really think you can do this? Perform a spell while you’re in someone’s head?” It’s something Regulus taught him early on, that the body shouldn’t be expected to do anything too complex while the mind was occupied with legilimency.

“I think so,” Regulus says. “It shouldn’t be as involved as true legilimency. It’s not like I’m actively searching for something, more just standing on the shore and isolating a thought.”

“What happens if it doesn’t work?”

Regulus shrugs.

“I ruin your birthday surprise.”

“There’s no chance of me getting completely obliviated?”

“No,” Regulus snorts. “It’s a doctored version of the spell. It’s not meant to erase, just…bury.”

James blows out a breath. All things considered, he thinks he’s done crazier things than letting a sixteen-year-old experiment on him with untested cognitive magic. Becoming an animagus in fourth year comes to mind. Spending full moons with a werewolf. Befriending Sirius Black. Kissing Regulus Black.

This is about par for the course actually.

 “Alright. Yeah, let’s do it.”

Regulus looks just a little surprised.

“You’re sure?”

“I am,” James says and holds out a hand. “Now give me my damn birthday present.”

Regulus’s mouth quirks up at the corner and he reaches over the side of the sofa to dig through his bag.

Then he gives James his gift.

James stares at it.

He listens to Regulus talk through it, explain what it actually is. His voice rises and falls with confidence and hesitation in intervals, that same pattern of hope and restraint that James sees in so many of Regulus’s actions now that he knows to look for it.

He feels the weight of the gift settle in him, a gift with a submerged iceberg’s amount of thought underlying it.

When Regulus finishes, he gives James a minute to just sit with it and everything he’s said.

James meets Regulus’s eyes.

“Reg…”

“Don’t,” Regulus cuts the beginnings of his gratitude off. “It’s not your birthday yet.”

With gentle fingers he reaches over and coaxes the present out of James’s hands then tucks it neatly back into his bag and out of sight. James watches where he thinks it sits in the bag. He wants to say to hell with all of this and just get it back. He already feels wrong without it.

“James?” Regulus says softly.

He drags his gaze away from the bag.

“Do you still want to do this?”

James shakes himself internally and gets with the program.

“Yeah. I’m all good.”

“Okay. I’m going to bury it now.”

“Do I get to remember that you did this?” James asks out of a sudden curiosity. “Or do I not even know that part until you say the phrase?”

“Um… do you want to?”

James thinks for a second.

“I think I do. For the first time at least. I’d rather just not know what’s been hidden than not know that something’s hidden at all,” he decides. “Plus then I’ll have something to look forward to.”

Regulus huffs and smiles.

“And you’re so good with anticipation,” he teases.

“I’ll have you know I am unparalleled in feats of patience.”

“That you are,” Regulus agrees. James can’t tell if he’s joking.

Regulus draws his wand and meets his eyes.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Just before he enters his mind James says, “Wait.”

Regulus pauses.

“What’s the key phrase going to be?”

Regulus rolls his eyes.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Then he raises his wand and focuses on James, and James feels an odd sensation like he’s just walked into a room to do something and doesn’t immediately see what it is.

And then he’s absolutely sure he’s forgotten something but for the life of him he couldn’t say what.

It's just gone.

Before him Regulus lowers his wand.

Tentative now, he asks, “How was that?”

“A bit strange,” James admits. He runs a hand through his hair.

“What do you remember?”

“You were going to experiment on me,” James says. “Doctor my memory with legilimency. And then you told me something…” he trails off. “We were talking about birthdays. Did it have to do with my birthday?”

Regulus nods.

“And… that’s it.”

Regulus considers this.

“Well, that’s about how it was supposed to go.”

“Wow. Okay.”

“Is that alright?” Regulus hedges. “I can say the phrase now and you’ll remember if you don’t like it.”

“No, it’s fine actually,” James says. He kind of wants to see Regulus’s plan play out. He’s a sucker for Regulus’s plans, and Regulus in general, so he’s really the perfect test subject here. “A bit annoying maybe, but harmless enough.”

“If you’re sure, then.” Regulus is still watching him for signs of discomfort. James smiles at his hesitation. If only people could see how very careful Regulus Black can be. But also no because that’s James’s and he isn’t so inclined to share.

For the first time he thinks that maybe they both wear masks: Regulus’s a cold apathy disguising his refusal to mishandle what he deems important, James’s an effusive generosity that hides a selfishness for very rare and secret things.

Before he can get too deep into that thought, Regulus is settling back against him and nothing seems as urgent as that. He takes James’s hand in his own and toys with his fingers idly and James lets him do whatever he wants.

James uses the time to inspect the feeling of forgetting that Regulus has found a way to induce. It’s like poking at a place where he’s just lost a tooth, his tongue aware that it’s gone but searching for it all the same. He tries to imagine what it must have been like for Regulus to snatch up one of James’s thoughts, one he put there no less, and whisk it away to the back of his mind. He pictures Regulus on the shore of the forest lake, just close enough to disturb the water, though he’s been there so often now James wouldn’t be surprised if his mind just welcomed him without a ripple to show for it. He thinks Regulus might have stooped down and scooped the thought into neat containment, a message in a bottle that he then threw with swift accuracy far into the depths of James’s consciousness to be summoned when he calls.

It's extremely vulnerable to have Regulus not only tread through his mind and read through its contents but to now have him leave something behind too. And it’s extremely empowering to have been the one to let him. He feels like they’ve traded secrets; Regulus breaks into his home and hands him a priceless object and says I need you to keep this for me, you’re the only one I trust, and James says Of course.

Despite thinking that Regulus had known everything there was to know about legilimency and occlumency, he still finds ways to surprise him. James is unbearably fond of that trait, the sliver of discontent that drives Regulus towards innovation. It inspires James, makes him wonder what else he could do if given the chance.

He casts about for the wild musings of fact and fiction and fantasy that people have imagined for the human mind.

And when he finds something, he stops.

Considers.

Then he says, “Hey, Regulus?”

Regulus hums in response.

James gives it one last look over and wonders if this is something he’s actually going to propose because it sounds mad just thinking it.

But who is he kidding, he’s absolutely going to say it.

“Have you ever thought about telepathy?”

Silence.

Regulus turns his head up and looks at him.

When he smiles, it’s slow and galvanized.

*

Regulus really, genuinely doesn’t have time for this shit.

Plenty of people say it, but for him it’s real.

He feels like he’s playing a game of wizards chess against an invisible opponent. Or rather, the opponent is visible but doesn’t know they’re playing. Or maybe it’s that they’re playing and Regulus has to be the one who’s invisible? Long story short, it’s twisting his mind into knots that he can feel physically.

He’s back to his pendulum of sleepless nights and conspicuous weariness during the days, if his friends’ palpable concern can be trusted.

But he’s got problems. Real, glaring ones so they’ll just have to excuse him if they’re taking a toll.

There’s a perpetual list running loops in his head like a skipping record, scratching on a bump and jumping back to the same maddening point.

On that list there are five Horcruxes.

Of those five, he’s only found three.

Of those three, he only has one.

He hasn’t found a way to destroy any of them.

By his count that’s four whole Horcruxes he needs in his possession before he can actually end a war, and that’s only if he can actually get rid of them. At the very least, it’s two whole Horcruxes whose whereabouts he needs to ascertain before he can quietly slip from the Death Eaters’ view.

That was what the extra six months was supposed to be for. All things considered, he’s made impressive progress, stealing one Horcrux and pilfering the locations of two more from some of the most unsavory minds in Britain. And he still has top marks in school so suck on that, Walburga.

But the dull truth is it doesn’t mean a damn thing if he doesn’t know where all five of them are.

Regulus has a vision of a perfect world in which he procures all the Horcruxes and destroys them all before June 25^th. He’d wipe his hands of this whole nasty war business and let the two sides fight it out now that he’d evened the playing field.

The odds of this happening are very slim, but Regulus isn’t and hasn’t ever been an optimist so it doesn’t hurt all that much.

Regulus also has a vision of a rather cumbersome and inconvenient world that still works out in his favor in the end. He wouldn’t have all the Horcruxes, maybe a few here and there, but by June 25^th he’d at least know where they all are. That would still be enough information to disappear himself from Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters before they could carve a tattoo onto his arm and welcome him to the big happy family. Then he could go about getting the last few without them peering over his shoulder.

That, unfortunately, is also looking less and less likely by the day. And he can’t walk his plan back any more than that. The whole point of him being the one to do what he’s doing is that he can actually get close to the people who know about the Horcruxes. If he were to walk away before that, he’d be just as lost and bumbling as Dumbledore and his blind little army.

On top of that, there was another story in the papers that morning about an attack on a wizarding village in Derbyshire and a fuzzy, undulating picture of a skull and snake in the sky gracing the front page.

So when Regulus says he doesn’t have time for this shit, he means it.

This shit being turning a corner into what was supposed to be an empty corridor and running into Avery and Mulciber practicing the fine art of undiluted idiocy.

They both have their wands drawn and pointed at Remus Lupin, who’s backed against a wall and clearly quite done with their antics.

Regulus has time to notice Lupin’s wand lying useless across the floor and the blood running from his split lip and decides they must have gotten the drop on him. Avery and Mulciber are by no means poor wizards, but they’re not quite up to Lupin’s caliber. This was likely a coward’s attack: from behind and outnumbered. Normally, Regulus doesn’t give much thought to that kind of balancing of scales—a fight is a fight as far as he’s concerned, and if you don’t take every advantage to win then you lose because you’re stupid—but it’s nice to confirm some biases about Avery and Mulciber without having to challenge his sense of their characters. Regulus so appreciates when people prove him right.

They haven’t seen him where he stands in the shadows down the hall. Most of the snow has melted outside now and subjected them to the kind of oppressively wet, cold omen of spring that keeps the cloud cover thick and the nights arriving early. Regulus takes the darkness for the advantage it is and waits to hear what this could possibly be about.

From his position against the wall, Lupin is tensed with both anticipation and ire. Regulus has no doubt if he had his wand this would be over in a second. His eyes switch between the two of them to keep them both in his sight. Regulus recognizes good survival instincts when he sees them.

“We’d rather skip the part where you pretend you don’t know, Lupin,” Avery says, feigning boredom. He doesn’t quite get it though, too excited by the idea of having someone at the end of his wand.

“Don’t know what?” Lupin asks innocently.

“Cut the act,” Mulciber bites. “Between Black and Potter there’s no way they don’t run their mouths off about the resistance. And you’re basically their bitch so you’d know whether you like it or not.”

“Potter’s parents, surely,” Avery goads. “They’re soft-hearted traitors with the best of them. We certainly won’t need their names on any list when we go after them.”

Regulus feels suddenly cold.

“But there’s plenty more,” Avery goes on. “You’ve heard names.”

“We want them,” Mulciber states simply. “And you’re going to give us a few.”

“Oh, you’ve both certainly come up with a fascinating extracurricular this semester, haven’t you?” Lupin says, looking between them like he can see into their heads. Regulus can tell even from where he’s standing that Avery and Mulciber don’t like that Remus is much harder to intimidate than they’d expected. Regulus is reluctantly impressed.

“What exactly do you expect to do with all this information I have?” Lupin wonders. “Take it to your daddies and get a pat on the head? Or do you fancy yourselves going out and catching a few prisoners to bring back all on your own?”

Regulus is less impressed. Lupin seems to have spent a bit too much time with Sirius if he’s verging into provoking territory now. Mulciber’s face is growing a scowl and Avery has gone still with the insult. But Lupin doesn’t stop there.

“You know, I’ll bet you’re looking for a promotion of some sort,” he says with exaggerated realization. “Do you not get enough attention from the psychopath club? Want to maybe prove your meddle with the big kids?” He clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “I hope this wasn’t an official assignment. Imagine their faces when you have to crawl back and tell them you can’t even deliver a threat effectively.”

Mulciber lets out what might be a growl just as Avery makes a sharp gesture with his wand. Lupin catches the stinging jinx on his shoulder and flinches but resists making a sound. His eyes are intent and there’s a set to his mouth that speaks of very controlled anger. He may be out of Avery and Mulciber’s league, but it doesn’t make much difference when he’s itching for a fight just as much as they are.

Regulus sighs to himself and figures one stinging jinx will be punishment enough for Lupin’s loose tongue. Anything more and Sirius might want to have a conversation when he realizes Regulus just stood by and watched the whole thing play out. The idea exhausts him.

Before Mulciber can get his hex in, Regulus leans his shoulder and against the wall and puts his hands in his pockets.

“Gentlemen,” he drawls.

Three heads whip his way, and he lets them get a good look at his complete lack of amusement.

Lupin looks a bit surprised to see him, maybe more surprised that he’s bothered to interrupt.

Avery and Mulciber’s reactions are much more telling. Avery pulls himself up and shifts with distaste. Mulciber instead seems to hunch more like he’s thinking of putting his head down and charging Regulus. That would be embarrassing of him.

Regulus can’t believe he’s going to have to humble himself with these morons for the next few months. He’ll never claim to be an angel but he really doesn’t think he deserves this.

“Black,” Avery clips. “We’re rather occupied here as you can see. Perhaps you’d like to move along with your evening.” It doesn’t sound like an invitation.

“Yeah,” Mulciber agrees. “Don’t worry about getting your pretty little hands dirty. Some of us don’t mind doing real work.”

Regulus almost wishes these two would make it harder for him.

Alas.

They’re obviously still licking the wounds from being snubbed from the first cut of Death Eater Juniors, and it looks like they’re about to indulge in some truly impressive depths of stupidity to make up for it in a display their limited imaginations probably think will get them a hearty handshake from Voldemort himself. Regulus wonders if they’ve thought past the first step of this plan or if Step 1: Threaten Sympathizer Names Out of Unwitting Student really is the best they can do.

Unfortunately for them, Lupin isn’t quite as unwitting as they’d likely thought.

Fortunately for them, Regulus is here to show them the error of their ways.

“Now, I know this isn’t something you’ve come up with yourselves,” Regulus begins as he pushes off the wall. He starts walking towards them slowly.

“You must have received word from my cousin Bellatrix with a special assignment,” he says. When he’s met with blank looks from Avery and Mulciber he continues. “No? Perhaps from my cousin Lucius then. Or if that’s not it, then it must have been my mother.”

Regulus stops in a pool of lantern light some four meters away from where the three of them are in their standoff.

“Or, Merlin, I suppose it even could have come from me,” he says with feigned surprise. “Do you know how I know that?”

“For fuck’s sake, Black, what are you prattling on about?” Mulciber barks as he drops his wand. “All you Blacks ever do is talk.”

Narcissa was right. If Regulus wants even a moment of peace this semester, it’s time for a little demonstration.

Regulus meets Mulciber’s gaze and holds it. He erases any trace of thoughts or emotions from his own and lets the silence stretch out until he sees Avery twitch with discomfort behind him. Mulciber is looking at him like there’s something wrong with him. Very astute.

“I asked you a question,” he says quietly. “Do you know how I know that you two didn’t do this of your own volition?”

He waits for Mulciber to send one uncertain look back at Avery.

Then he strikes.

Their unprotected minds are laughably easy to infiltrate, even at the same time, and Regulus makes no effort to disguise his presence.

Instead he sends himself in with long, thick claws, belonging to some enormous, predatory iteration of his cat, and sinks them deep into the soft tissue of their minds.

Mulciber gasps and Avery’s breath seems to stick in his throat as his eyes go wide.

Regulus digs in deeper.

Avery falls to his knees. Mulciber on the other hand tries to make one futile attempt at escaping Regulus’s vicinity only to stumble against the wall. Lupin steps neatly out of his way while surveying it all play out.

Regulus stalks towards them, the cat through and through.

“I know you didn’t think you were worthy of carrying out your own plans because you have sworn yourselves to the Death Eaters. And the Death Eaters are not some gormless collection of wizards with the blessing of their leader, sent out on their merry way to persecute dissenters as they see fit.”

Regulus steps in close until he’s towering over where Avery and Mulciber are shaking against the feeling of their minds held fast in Regulus’s claws.

“The Death Eaters are an army,” he hisses. “And there are ranks, and the ranks are respected because they are earned.”

He crouches down to look Avery right in the eye.

“Do you know how I earned my rank?”

Avery blinks rapidly, unable to answer even if he wanted to.

“I could reduce you to a drooling, incontinent sack of human offal with an offhanded thought,” he hisses at him. “I wouldn’t even need a wand.”

He turns his gaze to Mulciber.

“I could dig up all your unsavory little secrets and replace them with the larva of nightmares that would drive you to madness. And the Dark Lord sees great value in that.”

Mulciber lets out a shuddering breath and pushes himself further into the wall.

“I’ll assume that this mistake is because you’re both so new to the ranks. You haven’t quite got a feel for how things work, and that’s alright.”

Regulus stands.

“Because now you know that there is no measurement that could describe the distance between you two and me," he bites out. "There’s a reason the ranks of the Death Eaters are saturated with the Black family. So for the remainder of our time at Hogwarts, I suggest you both get very comfortable with the idea that you breathe at my leisure. I don’t care for having to repeat myself.”

Regulus thinks he’s made his point. He lets go of their minds with one last scrape for good measure and watches them slump to the floor panting with relief or residual adrenaline. He doesn’t care.

“Get out of here,” he says, deliberately turning his back to them like he doesn’t think they’d even dare point a wand at him after that.

From the sounds of shoes scrambling against stone and hurried footsteps down the corridor, he’s probably right.

A moment of lovely silence.

Then Lupin has to ruin it.

“Did you write that out first?”

Regulus rolls his eyes.

“You're welcome.”

“I was having fun with it.”

“How’s your shoulder?”

Lupin snorts. Regulus plucks his wand from the ground and holds it out to him. Lupin eyes him warily as he wipes the blood from his lip with the back of his hand but accepts it all the same.

“What exactly did you do to them?” he asks.

It’s a fair question. That was far too advanced to be any strain of wandless magic he’d be capable of.

Regulus has to be very mindful of what portions of his life he gives a fuck about these days. There’s only so much to go around and the majority is devoted to much larger problems, and Lupin has already proved himself capable of discretion and surprisingly nonjudgmental.

So fuck it.

“Legilimency,” Regulus answers simply.

Lupin stares for a moment, either at the implications of his admission or the act of admission itself.

Then he mutters, “Fucking hell.”

Regulus agrees.

“If it’s any consolation,” Regulus says, “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that happening again.”

“I’ll say.” Lupin drags a tired hand down his neck like Avery and Mulciber just gave him an inconvenient headache. “You properly scared the shit out of them.”

Regulus smirks in return. That at least had been fun.

“Is all that true then?” Lupin asks. “What you said about the Death Eaters?”

“Is it true that Avery and Mulciber are at the bottom of a very long list of impressive names?" Regulus folds his arms. "Yes, that’s true.”

“And you’re… not at the bottom?”

“Somewhere in the middle, I suspect. Closer to the top.”

“Unfortunately,” Lupin tests.

“Comfortably,” Regulus corrects.

Lupin raises a brow.

“Not too comfortably, I hope.”

Regulus gives an unpleasant little smile.

“Just enough.”

“For?”

“My purposes. And general survivability.”

Lupin huffs a laugh.

“Well, cheers to general survivability.”

Regulus gives credit to his insight that Lupin doesn’t push him to attach some meaning to what his purposes might be.

“So I take it you’re not interested, then?” Lupin continues. “Don’t care to collect any names yourself?”

“Please.” Regulus rolls his eyes. “As if you would know anything the Death Eaters don’t. Avery and Mulciber don’t have the capacity to think beyond the linear. The only credit I’ll give them is that they didn’t immediately go after Sirius or James.”

Lupin concedes to that with a tilt of his head.

“They thought I’d be their way in,” he adds.

Regulus nods.

“But they didn’t know you’re a hard-headed bastard.”

Lupin barks one sharp laugh.

“Wonder where I get it from,” he chuckles.

Regulus doesn’t feel the need to stick around. He turns back towards the corridor but stops before he leaves.

“They won’t try again with you, now that they do know. And likely won’t try again at all for a while,” he says over his shoulder. Lupin stills as he listens.

“But they’re insecure enough to want to eventually. Keep an eye on your muggle-born friends,” he says as he walks away. Then, in afterthought, he adds, “And maybe Pettigrew.”

Chapter Text

James is nervous for breakfast, which in his opinion is a bloody stupid thing to be nervous about. He can’t help it though. This will be the first real test of whether or not the whole concept of telepathy is feasible, let alone practical.

He feels like he’s definitely going to fuck it up somehow.

Regulus has been stern about what kind of attention they devote to developing what might be one of the first true instances of functional telepathy in the wizarding world. James had been completely unsurprised when he arrived at their next meeting and found Regulus surrounding by a pile of books, doing his due diligence on previous iterations and experimentations. He had briefed James on what he’d found, mostly that there were spells and potions to mimic telepathy for short periods of time, and never really with any precision.

What they were attempting was much more sophisticated.

Still, Regulus was adamant that the first half of their lessons always be spent developing James’s legilimency in an attempt to strengthen him before they ventured too far down new paths. James appreciates the concern, despite the laborious drills Regulus has him complete.

However, they’re both a bit too enamored by the idea of real, viable telepathy to stray from it for long, and they always end up back there whether they intend to or not.

Once again, Regulus seems more than willing to share the credit with James. Personally, James thinks that’s a bit too generous considering he’d just said Hey, what if… and Regulus had been the one to say Hmm, interesting, this is how we’d have to do it...

Regulus has genuinely gone above and beyond all expectations James previously held for his capacity for innovation. He’d worked out most of the snags that would come with trying to use legilimency as a form of communication by the time he’d sat James down across from him and explained their first attempt.

“Now, this will hardly be graceful the first few time,” he’d begun. “We have no idea what we’re doing, and we’re basically going to have to force it until we can make out all the loopholes.”

James had leaned forward, feeling a but coming.

“But,” Regulus continued, “I’m thinking it will be a bit like one of us entering the other’s mind and bringing a concentrated thought with us. If we can treat it a bit like what I did when I planted a thought in your head, but with less subterfuge of course, then it should feel like thinking what the other person wants to say.”

Regulus had gazed across the room and toyed with his rings.

“Then if the other person wants to respond, all they’d have to do is arrange their thoughts like you did at that one practice. Form the response clearly and push it to the forefront and it should be easy enough to glean.”

Regulus finally met James’s eyes, only to catch the manic grin on his face.

“Stop looking at me like that, we don’t even know it will work.”

“It’ll work,” James said with complete confidence.

“And you know that with what expertise?” Regulus challenged.

“My expertise on you,” James had retorted. Regulus’s face had gone a bit red in response, so he knew he was on the right track. “People come from all around the world to get my professional opinion on you. I’m very highly regarded amongst my peers, and my expertise is informing me that when you come up with an idea like this, it always works.”

Regulus had mumbled, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” but hadn’t put up the kind of protest he once would have at the idea of James knowing him.

They had practiced dragging a single discernible thought with them when they crossed the boundary into each other’s minds. When it seemed too cumbersome, like dragging a trunk full of rocks every time, they’d refined the process to forming the thought once they were already past the shields. It required the piece of self they deployed for the endeavor to be a bit more developed than it needed to be for regular old legilimency, but they were both plenty adaptable.

Regulus had said that the true test of whether or not their version of telepathy would be of any practical use was if it could be done over greater distances when there were distractions around.

“Telepathy is hardly necessary when we’re alone and sitting right next to each other,” he’d argued. “We need to try it in conditions that are actually representative of when we’d need to use it.”

“What do you suggest?”

“The Great Hall.”

James nodded slowly.

“Yeah, that would definitely qualify.”

“I suppose it’s also a bit limited in who can use it,” Regulus had mused. “No one who isn’t a legilimens would be able to respond if you were to enter their minds with a thought. And most legilimens don’t practice arranging their thoughts like we do, so they wouldn’t either.”

“But in theory, we could enter anyone’s mind and speak to them?” James wondered if he had that right.

“I suppose so, yes,” Regulus had conceded. “As long as you could get past their shields.”

“Wicked,” James grinned. “I’m going to abuse the fuck out of this. Imagine Marlene’s face when she hears a voice in her head constantly telling her she’s late for Quidditch practice.”

“Worse, imagine her horror when it’s your voice.”

James had taken that opportunity to tackle Regulus back on the sofa.

Now, as he enters the bustling Great Hall to a cloudy sky and the energy of the student body deployed against the gloom, he feels a bit like he’s walking in to sit an exam.

He takes his place at the Gryffindor table on the side facing the Slytherins. Regulus is already there and lifts his eyes slightly to meet James’s. James serves himself tea and toast in effort to appear like he has some appetite, then shares a look with Regulus like Ready?

Regulus gives a subtle nod, and James wonders if they really need telepathy at this point.

James takes a deep breath and makes the leap across invisible space to the edge of Regulus’s mind. Once he’s past Regulus’s shields, he clears his mind and focuses on forming what he wants to say loudly and deliberately.

Then, with nothing left to do, he sends out his first message: GOOD MORNING REGULUS BLACK.

Across the Great Hall, James sees Regulus flinch violently and drop his cup of tea onto the table. It splashes across his plate and into his lap, and Regulus shakes it off his hands before snatching for his wand to clean it up.

“Fuck, sorry!” James blurts, only realizing that he said it out loud when Sirius turns an odd look on him.

“Alright, Prongs?”

“Uh, yeah,” he stutters. “Just, uh, accidentally kicked Lily under the table.”

That earns him another odd look from Lily, but then James feels Regulus’s glare from across the room and tunes back into where he’s still anchored in his head.

He sends out a much softer sorry! as Regulus’s ire bores into him.

Then he feels Regulus’s returned thought lapping up against him like it’s carried on the foam of an arriving wave.

Real fucking subtle, Potter. You almost gave me an aneurysm.

James can’t help but laugh, and he thinks Regulus can feel it in his mind from the way his mouth twitches against the urge to smile.

“James,” Sirius snaps.

“What?” James jumps.

“Are you with us?”

“Yeah, definitely,” James scrambles.

Then he feels another thought from Regulus.

Having trouble over there?

It comes with an undercurrent of almost coquettish amusement.

James sends back, I’d like to see you try it when someone’s talking to you.

Regulus gives him a thin smirk then turns to Dorcas and asks her a question at the same time that he says to James, What, like this?

“Fuck you, honestly,” James groans.

“Okay, what is your deal?” Sirius says, dropping his fork to his plate. “Who are you talking to? Cause it sure as hell isn’t any of us.” He gestures to their group of friends, some of whom are watching James with concern, others of whom are ignoring him completely. He appreciates their willingness to just let him be weird sometimes.

“Um… myself?” he tries.

“Yourself,” Sirius repeats with disbelief.

“Yup.” 

Peter pats him on his shoulder from his right.

“We need to work on that negative self-talk, James. No one’s going to be kind to you if you’re not kind to yourself.”

James and Sirius stare at him.

“Thanks, Pete. Solid advice,” James returns.

“No problem, mate.”

James pulls his attention back to Regulus.

Are you happy now that I look like a right lunatic in front of all my friends?

Regulus spreads butter on a piece of toast indolently.

I am simply opening their eyes to what I knew all along.

“I swear to Merlin, if one of us is a lunatic it’s not me.”

Across from him, Sirius throws up his hands in incredulity.

“That’s the spirit, James,” Peter says reassuringly.

Later, once they’ve safely sequestered themselves away from the larger world in the Come and Go Room and James and Regulus have given each other a sufficiently hard time about their respective predispositions (or lack thereof) for telepathy, the reality of what they’ve done together sets in. It’s so enormous it kind of eludes James. Hell, he talked to Regulus from across a room crowded with people without even opening his mouth. And Regulus had answered. James feels like the whole world is at his fingertips.

He takes the opportunity to snatch Regulus’s hand and reel him towards himself from where he was replacing one of the tomes on the bookshelf. Regulus stumbles a little in surprise and catches himself against James’s chest as James slips an arm around his waist.

“James!” Regulus protests, but James doesn’t care. He tilts Regulus’s face up to him so he can make sure Regulus is looking him in the eye.

“You’re a genius, you know that?”

Regulus blushes and attempts to push away from him.

“Yeah, alright,” he says on a laugh. “Sure.”

James tightens his arm around him until he hears Regulus suck in a breath and knows he understands that James isn’t actually kidding about this.

“I mean it. You just drew telepathy out of thin air like it was nothing.”

“That’s not really-“

“You’re incredible,” James cuts him off. He tilts his face to the side so he can lean in and brush a kiss along his jaw. “And so smart,”—he moves to kiss his cheekbone while Regulus is still petrified beneath him—“And daring.”

“James-“

“And so beautiful it cripples me,” he adds with a lingering kiss to the corner of Regulus’s mouth. When he pulls away, Regulus’s eyes are closed and his hands are tight on James’s shirt. James wants so much from him, wants to give him so much in return he’s not entirely certain it can all fit into one lifetime. He’s helpless to it, knows he has to find a way to space it out or risk overwhelming Regulus with the force and quantity of what he feels. But it’s not containable in this moment, and he has to reach for something, one little thing. He brushes his thumb along the place where his lips had touched Regulus’s smooth cheek.

“You know, sometimes I think about what it would be like if people were to see us together. In the halls or on the grounds or something simple,” James says quietly.

Regulus’s eyes drift open and his brow furrows as he meets James’s gaze.

“I think about what it would feel like to show you off,” James admits. “I honestly can’t believe I just walk around some days knowing I have this and yet no one else knows. Does that make sense?”

Regulus doesn’t give any indication.

“I just… it just feels so crucial, you know?” James tries. “Like the whole world has changed around me and yet no one can tell. But if they saw you and me, they’d suddenly get it. They’d get how nothing can possibly be the same again.”

“James…”

“Like that would make it all real.” That feels a little too true when James hears it aloud, and he has to clarify. “Not that this isn’t real. We’re definitely real,” he says, stroking up Regulus’s ribs to punctuate. Regulus gives a quick half smile in acknowledgement but waits for James to continue.

“But… it’s sort of like the tree falling in the woods, isn’t it?” James hedges. “If the tree falls and no one hears, did it happen? If we’re… us, and no one knows or no one recognizes it… what does that make us?”

It’s scary, putting that out there. James isn’t used to being insecure about anything. Then again, James isn’t used to being quite this in over his head with his feelings. It’s not that James doesn’t think what he and Regulus have is real. It might be the realest thing he’s ever experienced in his life for how alive and incendiary and good it makes him feel. But it’s almost like it’s too real. Too good to be true maybe. James needs someone to see them together, to look at them and do a double take and say You two? Really? so that James can be sure that other people actually see it and they find it as mad as he does, so that he can say I know, right? Also fuck you.

He'd thought that keeping it secret wouldn’t matter to him. Or that it would, but that it’d be a sacrifice he could maintain for however long he had to. But it’s sort of… hurting him? Maybe? If that isn’t too melodramatic. He isn't a secret keeper; it doesn't come to him naturally and this is a hell of a secret to start with. His friends know, sure, but that’s just so complicated with Sirius and Regulus that they never talk about it. They might as well not know.

James understands the need for secrecy, but that doesn’t make the pain any less painful. And everything they’ve done together, the occlumency and legilimency and transfiguration and stargazing and now the telepathy, are all things that somehow require and reinforce their secrecy. James finds himself aching for those brief days over the holiday when Regulus had walked freely down the hallways of his house and commingled with his friends and family as the cat. James hasn’t felt as carefree in his company since then.

And so James is left here, alone to question his own sanity.

And then the worse thoughts, like if this ends and still no one knows and still they don’t talk about it, did it even really happen?

James doesn’t think he can go the rest of his life wondering if one of the most transformative relationships he’s ever had and ever will have was just in his imagination as much as it was just behind closed doors.

“You want people to know about us?” Regulus asks softly.

“Sort of,” James concedes. “I guess, yeah. I know they can’t, but…”

“It doesn’t stop you from wanting it.”

“Yeah,” James nods, and Regulus watches him.

James knows they can’t do anything with his pointless wishes though, so he gathers his courage and finds something concrete.

“My birthday is Saturday,” he says.

“I know.”

“We’re using the Hogsmeade trip to take over a bit of the Three Broomsticks,” he explains. “Rosmerta’s already agreed to let us put a some tables together and we’ve invited a bunch of people.”

James sees the realization dawn on Regulus’s face, a serious concern settling like frost over his features. He plows ahead.

“Dorcas will be there with Marlene. And I invited Pandora too,” he says. He takes Regulus’s hands. “Come with us. You can bring Barty and Evan and you won’t even look out of place. There’ll be a crowd. People won’t even notice you.”

Regulus is looking at James with regret already, but to his credit, he’s at least considering it.

“Please, Reg. It’d mean everything just to have you there.”

Regulus bites his lip and turns his face so it’s hidden by his curls then says, “I don’t know.”

James nods.

“That’s alright. You don’t have to know now. Just think about it. Please.”

Regulus searches his gaze.

“Okay. I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

Regulus shakes his head with some knowledge that James isn’t privy to. They finally get on with their legilimency practice.

On Saturday, what feels like the whole student body makes the trip down the hill and tracks a metric ton of mud into the streets of Hogsmeade. The sky is one thick sheet of racing clouds, rushed away in a continuous turnover by the same wind that flips scarves and tugs at strands of hair. Nevertheless, the good cheer of a school’s worth of people grateful for the end of winter pushes back the gloom with determination. They’ll drag spring in kicking and screaming if they have to.

James is still relieved to step out of the wind and into the warmth of the Three Broomsticks. It’s the kind of atmosphere that traps you like a hug, comforting and nonnegotiable.

His friends filter in and stack the table with drinks and baskets of chips. They take their seats and get up and move around, lean over each other and sit on the table. Marlene makes multiple attempts to jam James’s name into what she assures him are quite authentic bar shanties. She gets through “I bought a drink for a man from the Isle, who hadn’t been home to his lass in a while, he said that she’d dress with a neck plunging low, where James’s fine breasts were a sight to behold” before Peter has fallen out of his chair and is too busy wiping tears from his eyes to notice the scene he’s making. Sirius tries to scoop him back up but ends up slumped over him instead, weakened by his own laughter.

At some point Pandora swans over to James and hands him a card. James grins and thanks her and inside the card is a milky sheet of cardstock splashed in delicate watercolors that take the shape of a lone black cat sitting at the edge of a rose garden. James’s head jerks up, but Pandora just smiles.

“I heard you like cats” is all she says.

“Er… yeah, suppose I do.” He takes another long look at Pandora’s face, trying to discern what she could possibly know about certain things that were meant to remain secret, but he genuinely can’t tell a thing. “Did you paint this?” he asks instead.

“Sure did,” she says easily. “Never seen a cat in a rose garden before, though. Do you think it would agree with them?”

James stares at her.

“I don’t see why not.”

She shrugs.

“Guess we’ll have to find out.” She wishes him a happy birthday and draws a seat up next to Dorcas.

James tucks the painting back into the card for further thought at a time when the Hufflepuff keeper hasn’t dared Sirius to drink a pitcher of firewhiskey.

Mary and Lily appear arm in arm from the cold and each plant a kiss on his cheek and drag him away from the boys to tell him who they saw Professor Osiris snogging behind the Hog’s Head. James slaps a hand over his mouth a little too hard.

At some point, Rosmerta even comes by to wish him happy birthday and perform a few bar tricks she learned from her time working at some swanky muggle speakeasy in London a few years ago. When she flips a bottle and manages to fill the glass in the air, it earns a round of applause from the table.

“Might have used a bit of magic behind the bar, but the statute of secrecy doesn’t know shit about pulling tips out of upscale pricks,” Rosmerta says as she wipes her hands on her apron.

James and Sirius laugh, and Remus gets that mischievous glint in his eye. He leans on the table next to Rosmerta and ducks his head towards her.

“Ever been to Bavaria, Rosmerta?” he drawls, eyes on Sirius the whole time.

Sirius’s eyes flash in outrage where he’s frozen in his chair. He has to sit there and watch as Rosmerta visibly blushes and swats at Remus with a towel.

“Oh, enough of that. I’m much too old for you boys, and I’ve seen the world, thanks much.”

“Well, I’ll certainly need someone to show me around,” Remus purrs.

Rosmerta laughs at that even as she gives him a playful little shove before she heads back to the bar. Remus flops down in the seat next to Sirius and throws his arm across the back of the chair. They stare at each other, Remus smug and expectant, Sirius holding back… something. James isn’t sure he wants to know what it is. Mary is across the table leaned with her chin propped in her hand.

“Honestly, you are wasted in a relationship,” she finally says. “I know it took fucking forever and a day for you two to get together, but Merlin, I’d love to take you to a bar and set you loose.”

Peter nods next to her.

“Where was all that charm when you weren’t one half of Britain’s most sickeningly happy couple?”

“Enough about Remus’s undeniable sex appeal, please,” Sirius cuts in. “I am highly aware and happy to share about it but it’s not on the market currently.”

Remus curls a hand in the back of Sirius’s hair.

All that to say, James’s birthday is fun. A lot of fun.

He’s surrounded by the people he loves and even gets well wishes from passing acquaintances and people he’s just friendly with. He’s warm and laughing and safe despite the world shifting on its axis outside and he’s a little buzzed off the firewhiskey.

He doesn’t even realize he’s looking for something missing until they’ve already been there for two hours. But it’s that feeling that’s become familiar now, like he’s missing a rib and doesn’t know where he’s misplaced it. He watches the door each time it opens and more students press in. He looks around the table and sees a space where someone else could fit. He hears gaps in conversations where someone’s dry humor might have cut in and sent him into stitches.

So James has fun, and he’s dreadfully grateful for everyone there. But after a while it curdles. The party is still in full swing when James looks out the window and sees a figure in a dark coat standing against the post office across the street. He watches Regulus watch him, watches him actively consider the distance between himself and the door to the Three Broomsticks. He feels a physical ache somewhere in his chest with how hard he’s urging Regulus to cross that distance.

Then he watches as Regulus turns away and walks up the street.

James stands from the table and grabs his coat. No one notices when he slips out the door.

Regulus isn’t on the main street. He isn’t on the side streets or alleys James cranes his neck down either. James makes it all the way to the edge of town and then out of it without seeing him. He just keeps going. Follows the trail up the hill until he’s at the tired fence at the lookout where the Shack can be seen in the distance.

He stops then and gazes out at it in the late afternoon light. He leans his elbows onto the fence and lets the relentless wind buffet him as it pleases.

He stays there for a long time.

When James pulls himself out of his little reverie and looks to his left, Regulus is there.

The cat sits on the post one length of fence away from him like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to come closer. James just stares back.

The cat hesitantly puts one paw on the wooden rail and makes his way onto the plank. James can’t help but remember the first time the cat came down from his perch to scare the shit out of him with his balancing act on the railing. It was the first time Regulus had given James a chance, the first time he had taken his offer and his challenge to come closer. They’d had fun together, even without knowing each other.

James can’t help but wonder how it’s all gotten so complicated now. It makes him so very tired. He feels much older than eighteen.

The cat steps lightly all the way over to the post next to where James is leaning. He watches him closely as he sits, right by James’s shoulder. James sighs and looks at the cat for another minute before turning his gaze back to the Shack. The cat does the same.

The wind tugs at the two of them as they build up their silence.

*

“Sirius.”

“Hmm?”

“Where’d Prongs go?”

Sirius’s brow furrows and he looks around as if he just remembered they’re at a birthday party for a person who does not currently seem to be in attendance.

“Dunno. Think he left?” Sirius asks, already standing. He takes a little swaying step and Remus rises to catch his elbow before he falls over.

“Must’ve.” Remus grabs his jacket from the back of a stray chair and stuffs his arms into it.

“Pete, hold down the fort. We’re going for a quick walk,” Remus calls down the table.

Peter salutes with a resolute “Aye, aye.” Or as resolute as he’s capable of with multiple pints of butterbeer in him.

Sirius pushes out the door ahead of Remus and they step right into the onslaught of wind.

“Godric’s fucking balls, when is this bloody weather going to throw us a bone,” Sirius says as he wraps his leather jacket tighter around himself.

“Maybe if you didn’t insist on wearing that thing in all climates you could actually be warm,” Remus preens. “Like me.” He spreads the flaps of the tan fleece-lined trench coat he’d nabbed from a muggle thrift store for a criminal price. With a sewing needle and a few buttons, it hardly looked worthy of the hovel he’d found it in.

Sirius rolls his eyes.

“Suppose you’ll need to be when you run off to Bavaria with your harem,” he mutters.

Remus can’t help the grin as they trudge down the street.

“Jealous about that, Pads? You can come too, if you don’t mind sharing.”

“Need I remind you my thoughts about sharing?” Sirius growls as he gets close and aims a bite at Remus’s neck.

Remus shoves his face away and laughs.

“No, we’re quite clear on that.”

“Good.”

They check in store windows and restaurants, though neither of them have a plausible guess for why James might shirk his own party for a bit of shopping. They make it all the way to the end of town and are about to turn back and check side streets when they see James posted up at the fence on the ridge.

Remus and Sirius stop in their tracks some distance away.

“Is that-“

“Yeah, I think so.”

There’s a sleek black cat sitting next to James on the fence. The two aren’t touching and don’t really look at each other, but there’s a line drawn in the space around them that marks it as distinctly private.

They stand there and watch their best friend and Sirius’s little brother not talk and not acknowledge each other and not really do anything. Then Remus slips a hand into the crook of Sirius’s elbow and gives a light tug to turn him around.

They walk side by side back down main street with the image hanging between them.

“He’s been sort of tense lately,” Sirius finally says. “Frustrated.”

Remus hums in agreement. He doesn’t know when they started doing so much not talking about James, but he thinks maybe they’ve let it turn into something it’s not supposed to be. Rather than a respect or an avoiding of stupid arguments, it’s become an isolation.

“Think we maybe need to sit him down at some point?” Remus suggests. “I know it’s not a conversation you want to have, but the thing with Regulus isn’t going to be easy for him. Probably already isn’t.”

It’s Sirius’s turn to hum in agreement. Remus knows he’s thinking it over and knows he’ll come to the right decision. It had taken a long time and a not insignificant amount of blind (stupid?) faith to reach a point where he could trust Sirius again after the events of last year. But he does. Especially when it comes to doing what’s best for James. Sirius’s life has been hard and complicated in ways entirely different from how Remus’s life has been hard and complicated, but Remus knows that James serves as a point of clarity for him. There’s never been any question of where James stands and what his intentions are.

Sometimes, Remus feels himself hurt because of all that goodness in James. Either out of some dark well of jealousy or a longing that he never even got a chance to be something like that or just a despair that something so light could be placed in a world so intent on eating light. He and Sirius have never talked about it, but there’s a solemn understanding between the two of them that they’ll do what they have to to let James keep that light.

Maybe it’s selfish.

Maybe it’s the least selfish thing either of them will ever do.

It doesn’t really matter, as long as they do it.

Remus has his suspicions that Regulus might be thinking the same thing. He’s far too smart and far too adept at reading people to have missed the fact that yes, James Potter really is just like that. And whatever depths Sirius and Remus predict they might have to go to in order to spare James…

Well.

After the little demonstration with Avery and Mulciber in the hallway, Remus wouldn’t be surprised if Regulus has already been there. Maybe vacations there.

Part of him is concerned that this is the person James has chosen for himself. Part of him nods approvingly because anyone with James better have a damn good idea of just how precious he is and shouldn’t be afraid to defend him.

James is perfectly capable of taking care of himself and takes care of others as well, in addition to and in excess of himself. But that’s exactly why the rest of them have to be hypervigilant for the moment when someone is going to come along and ask too much of James. Ask for something that dims that light.

That’s where the Not James Pact comes into play. When Sirius and Remus talk about the war to each other, in murmured words with the curtains drawn around the bed, hanging on to each other with a grip that can only be anticipatory, they circle around the unspoken agreement that they spare James from what they can. It won’t be much—war hardly lets itself be controlled so neatly—but they’ll do their best.

In the present, Sirius ruffles a hand through his hair and blows out a breath.

“Why couldn’t he just pick someone simpler?” he says, annoyed.

“You don’t mean that,” Remus corrects.

“Of course I don’t mean that,” Sirius snaps. “But Merlin, this is really going to suck, isn’t it?”

“Yup,” Remus agrees, thinking of the slow-motion grief that James has waiting for him as Regulus inevitably gets drawn away into the fog of war. How James will rage against it until he’s forced to his knees by the realization that he really can’t do anything about it this time, as long as Regulus insists that there’s something bigger holding him back and James respects him.

Remus sees Sirius’s mouth set in determination.

“Never thought we’d be the ones threatening James to talk about his feelings.”

“It is a rather odd turnaround for us, isn’t it?”

Sirius snorts.

“Think he’ll finally catch on?”

“That he’s in love with him? Dunno, it’s hard to tell at this point. The bigger question is whether it’s better if he admits it to himself now or if he delays it long enough that it doesn’t matter.”

That last nasty dilemma: if James finally comes to terms with the fact that he’s fully and completely in love with Regulus Black, only to lose him in a few months’ time, or if he’s better off suppressing that realization and only has to wonder what might have been. It’s a pretty shit hand to be dealt.

Remus and Sirius know James well enough to understand that there’s probably not much of a choice there anyway. James will do what he’s always done for the people he loves and submit himself to the soaring highs and devastating lows that come with loving them, fully and completely baring himself to all the euphoria and pain that life has to offer. It’s just his luck that there’s only pain on the horizon.

Sirius threads his arm through Remus’s and pulls him closer as they walk together. The two of them are too aware of how unlikely they are as a pair; they’ll never regret what they have in the face of someone else’s happiness or loss.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to hold each other just a bit tighter.

*

By some unspoken agreement, James and Regulus both converge on the Come and Go Room after they get back from Hogsmeade.

Regulus slips in the door with the same trepidation he had as the cat slinking his way closer to James. He closes the door so carefully James doesn’t even hear it snick shut. Normally James would be appalled at how cautious Regulus is being around him, but now he just feels churned up. There’s no room for normal reactions when he feels like his whole head is taken up by contradictions.

He’s filled and sated by the adoration of his friends who were generous enough to spend their Saturday with him to celebrate his birthday, but he’s still scratching ineffectually at that place where Regulus was missing from the whole thing.

He’s angry that despite all the concessions he’s made and all the patience he’s exercised that Regulus still decided he couldn’t spend this one day with him.

He’s angry that he can’t be angry because he knows the balancing act Regulus is trying to maintain and the consequences if he fumbles it.

But then he’s angry that he doesn’t know the details of the balancing act or how he can help juggle it because Regulus won’t tell him.

And so he’s angry that his past self had the good sense to give Regulus the space and privacy he needs to sort it out because right now he doesn’t want to give Regulus space. He wants him close and safe and he’s angry that even this current, angry version of himself can still recognize that his past self was right.

And on top of all that, he’s angry that he’s angry cause this is such a stupid, insipid little thing to be angry about and he can’t believe he’s actually standing here like a huffing toddler, red in the face cause his friend didn’t come to his birthday party. But Merlin, it had meant something to him and he didn’t realize how much hope he’d put into it until Regulus wasn’t there.

Regulus seems to be able to read all this on James’s face and he already looks contrite.

“James, I’m sorry.”

James just nods cause that’s what he’s supposed to do.

Regulus steps forward so he’s in the firelight.

“I really did want to. And I thought about it. For days,” he says quietly. “But I just can’t. There are people here now who have reason to want me to slip up. And they have the means to get me in a lot of trouble if I were to be seen-“

“Who?” James cuts in.

“What?”

“Who wants you to slip up?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer because he knows he’s not getting one. “They’re with the Death Eaters and they’re in this castle, so who are they?”

“I-“ Regulus starts. “James, why do you need to know? It’s better if you don’t.”

“Because you never tell me anything,” he says stalking towards him. “Your whole life is lived in secret at this point. You don’t tell me things I can’t know for reasons you can’t explain. You don’t tell anyone else things they can’t know cause it’ll come back to hurt you.” James pulls a hand through his hair. “I just wonder, Reg. How much living are you actually doing? Like does it actually feel like living at this point, or just like you’re constantly rushing around a big old house making sure all the drapes are still shut tight?”

Regulus’s face closes off and he takes a step back.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m doing this because I want to?”

“No, I know you don’t want to,” James groans. This feels far too similar to the last disastrous fight they’d had in this room. “I know you’re doing it because you have to, but I can’t help but feel like you haven’t left yourself with anything that’s not hidden.” He lifts his arms and lets them drop against his legs. “No telling what that does to a person.”

Regulus crosses his arms tight against that.

“What would you have me do then, James? Just say fuck it and gallivant around like I won’t be killed for making a wrong move?”

James flinches at that word like Regulus meant for him to.

“Nope, just keep doing what you have to do, I guess,” James clips. He’s run out of patience after months stretching this thing to its limit and part of him just wants to break it so he doesn’t have to cringe in anticipation of the snap.

“You clearly have some ideas for how I could be managing this better,” Regulus steps in his way. “So don’t hold back now. What is it you want me to do?”

“Nothing, Regulus,” he sighs, fed up. “You’re right, I don’t have any better ideas. Not that I would be able to since I don’t know shit anyway.”

“No, don’t humor me. What do you want from me?”

“Just drop it,” James snaps and tries to step around him, but Regulus steps with him.

“What do you want?” he demands close to his face.

“Nothing.”

Regulus grabs his arm hard.

“What do you want?”

And James can’t pretend anymore.

“Damn it, Regulus, I just want to go on a date with you!”

They’re both frozen by the outburst. James can’t remember if he’s ever raised his voice around Regulus, but he feels the silence afterwards viscerally. Even then, he can’t stop what he’s already started; all the childish hope that’s built up in him like scaffolding around a precious relic comes spilling out despite his months of careful suppression.

“I just want one stupid, measly date! I-“

James pulls his arm out of Regulus’s grip and drags his hands down his face cause he can’t believe he’s saying these words, but he really is and he can’t stop.

“I want to ask you out and get so nervous my palms sweat,” he says. “And I want you to say yes, and then I want to spend the whole week distracted cause I can’t wait for it. I want to deliberate what to wear and try to calm my hair down even though I know it won’t work and I know it won’t even matter cause you like making fun of it.

“And then I want to hold your hand and walk down to Hogsmeade with you,” James admits, and he can’t even look at Regulus anymore. “And yeah, I want people to stare, and we’ll know they’re doing it and we’ll let them cause honestly, what the hell are James Potter and Regulus Black doing together? It makes no bloody sense.

“But we’ll laugh at them cause we’ll know it makes sense, just to us.” James turns back to Regulus cause it may be stupid, but it’s also true. “I know it’s dumb. I know. But I just want to share a meal with you or a dessert or a drink or even just an hour, Reg. Just an hour where we’re not hiding from anything. And I know that your parents can’t know and there’s a war on, but isn’t that exactly why we have to go on the date?”

Regulus is staring at him like looking away might kill James. Maybe it would. James can’t fathom Regulus being anywhere else right now and moves closer.

“Don’t you get it? If we let the war stop us from doing everything we want to, if we let all our attention and all our time go to the war, then the war is all that matters.” He tries to lay it out how it exists in his head and can’t help but feel like he’s failing. “It becomes the end all be all of everything and I just can’t, Regulus, cause then what?

“What do we do when we forget about our futures and what we’re fighting for in favor of just fighting?” he implores. “I don’t want to do that. That’s not living, and I’m going to fight to go on living. For the people I love to go on living, but I won’t stop living in the meantime.” He shakes his head. “So we have to go on the date. It’s like you said, it’s not good versus bad. It’s us versus the war. And sometimes- sometimes it feels like it’s just you and me and one stupid date holding the whole front line.”

That’s all he’s got. The whole reason why he could hardly look Regulus in the eye ten minutes ago and the essence of the thing that wouldn’t leave him be for months. He vacillates wildly between thinking it’s too trivial to spare thought and that it’s the most important thing in the world.

But he supposes that’s up to Regulus to decide now.

The quiet stretches out between them until Regulus ducks his head.

“James…” and he already sounds sorry again. “I can’t give you the date,” he says. “Not right now.”

James nods in understanding cause with it all out in the open, he can see more clearly now and he knows why Regulus has to refuse him, even the stupid things. He can’t begrudge him for it, not like he could before he said it all. If it means Regulus puts himself in a position to get hurt or worse, it’s just not worth it.

Still, it stings.

“I know. It’s okay.”

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to,” Regulus says, looking up to meet his eyes. James takes a moment to appreciate how impossible this vulnerable version of Regulus was even two months ago. They would never have been able to say these things to each other, and it has to mean something that they can now.

Despite how badly James needs to know this isn’t all just going to slip out of his hands, the differences he sees in Regulus and himself are proof all on their own. He won’t be the same person he was before he met Regulus, if at some unthinkable point in the future Regulus goes where he can’t follow. And Regulus won’t be the same either.

James realizes, in that moment, that there was never any chance he’d come out of this unchanged. And there was never any chance the painful, sublime changes would allow themselves to be ignored, long past when whatever they have together reaches its inevitable expiration date.

He wonders if that pain, if that sublime will be enough of a souvenir to sustain him when it’s over, or if it will eat away at him like bad nostalgia so easily does.

“I want to give you that, James,” Regulus is saying. “More than I thought possible. But the best I can give you is just asking you for something again. I’d have to ask you to wait, until…” he trails off.

“Until after,” James finishes for him. The look Regulus gives him is enough to know that he recognizes it for the low trade it is. But James isn’t angry anymore, certainly not at Regulus. The anger burnt up like the quick fumes of an unstable potion, and now he’s left with exhaustion. Exhaustion and understanding. He said it himself: it’s them versus the war now. And he won’t be Regulus’s enemy. No matter what anyone tells him ever.

He steps forward and wraps his arms around Regulus. He presses his nose and mouth to Regulus’s curls and savors it when Regulus’s arms come up and squeeze him with that surprising strength.

“I can wait till after. We’ll still be here,” he says softly, more of a prayer than anything. “And I’ll find you, or you’ll find me. And then we’ll go on a date.”

He pulls back and looks down at Regulus, tries to remember him as he looks when he’s this close so he has the memory for when he’s not.

“Just don’t go too far. I won’t have the patience to spend long looking after this whole bloody circus is over,” he says through a wet laugh.

Regulus looks right into him and gives one wobbly smile.

Then he pulls something out of his pocket and says, “Happy birthday, James.”

James stills for a moment, caught between the item in Regulus’s curled fingers and an odd sort of flooding sensation in his head. Then something knocks into place as James remembers.

The legilimency lesson and Regulus’s thoughtful I kind of want to test something. Then, him rummaging through his bag and pulling out James’s birthday gift. James latching onto it and listening with all his might as Regulus explained what it was and how it worked and then took it back.

Then the key phrase and happy birthday, James.

James reaches out slowly and plucks the compass from Regulus’s hand.

The memory of receiving it the first time feels so close, like it literally just happened a second ago and maybe it never left his grasp. It’s the same as James remembers, a dull brass skeleton of a compass, pared down to the very base necessities: a notched outer rim, a structural cross, a nimble needle that swings lazily when James tilts it in his hand. The rest is left empty space, more like a cloak pin than a navigating device.

And with the memory are Regulus’s words.

“It’s a compass,” he said and crossed his legs, “and it will function like a normal compass most of the time. But it’s also got another function. You give it to someone and have them hold it up to their mouth and say their name. Then take it back and any time you say their name to it, it will point you in their direction until you find them.”

“Anyone?” James had asked, stunned.

"Anyone,” Regulus had confirmed. “Anywhere in the world.”

James couldn’t really wrap his head around it. He supposed he’d been spoiled by the map, able to find people whenever he wanted around the castle. But of course that would end when they all graduated. And with the war, it would never be more important to know exactly where his people were. James remembered Regulus mocking him for “collecting” Sirius and Remus and how he’d chaffed against James’s need to keep tabs on everyone all the time. But here he was, trying to put James into a better position to do just that.

James felt a sudden rush of protectiveness for that knowledge. He didn’t want to forget knowing that Regulus would do this for him, despite Regulus’s assurances that it wasn’t really forgetting. But he gave the compass back and let it happen because he trusted Regulus to let James know this part of him again in the future.

Now, with the compass back in his hand and a new understanding settled between them, James can’t help but be grateful that he’s getting it now. He thinks, against all odds, it’s somehow acquired even more meaning now that he and Regulus have agreed to find each other after the war.

Regulus slips it out of his hand and holds it up to his mouth. His lips brush the metal as he quietly speaks his name to it. Then he hands it back to James and it’s still warm from his breath.

“There,” he says. “Now you have no excuse.”

Chapter Text

The Death Eaters have been busy in Regulus’s absence.

Regulus has been busy in theirs as well.

He spends hours in the library, researching possible methods of destruction for something no one even seems able to talk about. He’s even risked a return trip to Professor Venicella’s office to see if she has any helpful texts he missed the first time. There’s nothing concrete, but he makes copies of page upon page of methodology that he just might need somewhere down the line.

On April 4^th, the Death Eaters trap all the muggle-born wizards of a town near Berriew in the church and set fire to it. A girl from Ravenclaw is ushered out of the Great Hall at breakfast the next day. No one sees her again. They all know where she’s gone.

Having decided that he’s neglected his other lines of inquiry too long, Regulus reads up on everything he can find about the tiara and the pendant. It doesn’t help that they both seem to have fallen off the face of the earth, lost to modern history. Regulus is unreasonably angry that Voldemort seems to be the only person who knows where they are.

Easter comes and goes quietly. In some other world, Regulus might have followed his brother and James out the front doors and down to the train. He might have stepped into the entryway of Potter Manor and viewed it all with human eyes for the first time. He might have introduced himself properly—nervously—to James’s parents instead of dropping his bloody cat carcass on their doorstep. The rest merges in a warm, confusing blur of bright colors and unfamiliar smells and sounds; he doesn’t have the imagination to conceive of such moments of peace.

It’s probably for the best that in this world, he doesn’t have to. He spends the holiday watching the rain through the library windows.

On April 19^th, members of the Order of the Phoenix deliver a bound and petrified cousin of Yaxley to the Aurors. Upon questioning, he reveals a deal the Death Eaters have with East European vampire clans to transport illegal potions ingredients across borders. Regulus allows himself one glorious moment to imagine Voldemort’s face when he tries hard not to look like he’s visibly pissed off. Then he puts the newspaper down and goes back to his books.

Voldemort doesn’t like to lose. More than that, he doesn’t like to lose publicly. There’s no telling what he’ll consider proper retribution for the disruption.

Which is how Regulus finds himself at the Dolohov estate on the night of April 27^th for a Death Eater meeting that is turning out to be less of a meeting and more of a… field trip.

A selected group of Death Eaters has gathered under the dark sky in the back garden, all the Marked members and a handful of unmarked, to serve as witnesses, Regulus supposes. None of them are quite sure what the occasion is, but Regulus can tell he’s not going to like it from Bellatrix’s palpable buzz of excitement.

They gather closer when Voldemort steps out and turns towards them.

They lean forward when he informs them that his sources have identified the location of the next Order of the Phoenix meeting.

There’s a collective intake of breath when he reveals the date of that meeting to be tonight.

They’ve never launched an outright attack on the Order, but, Voldemort says, the time is long overdue for them to recognize those who would dare stand in the way of their sacred purpose.

Regulus thinks he might throw up.

Voldemort singles out the Marked Death Eaters, and they step forward proudly, dawning black shrouds like smoke as they go. Etched silver masks engulf their faces with intricate designs and sew their mouths shut. Lucius’s looks like something he stole from the Royal Museum. Bellatrix’s looks like it’s laughing. Voldemort does not wear a mask and instead lets his serene face anticipate their journey.

“Friends,” he says to the remaining crowd of Death Eaters once he’s flanked by his inner circle, “We will be traveling to Brandon to offer our sincere regards to the Order of the Phoenix where they meet to plot our downfall. Should we require your additional assistance, I will send one of our number back to summon you to our side. Until then, you may await our triumphant return.”

Then he gives them the exact location of the meeting—an old town hall on the edge of Thetford Forest—and reminds them all that while causalities are an inevitability, prisoners are much preferred.

Regulus’s heartbeat echoes in his ears as Voldemort turns and the Death Eaters apparate out of sight in ones and twos. Voldemort leaves last.

Then it’s just a thrumming crowd of Death Eaters shifting on their feet, none quite willing to say that they hope their counterparts run into trouble.

Regulus has about thirty seconds of shallow breath to decide what he’s going to do where he stands at the very back of the crowd.

Next to him Avery folds his arms, clearly miffed he’ll have to keep waiting for a chance to use some force. Mulciber considers the other Death Eaters then turns his gaze to Regulus. The two of them have been civil with a barely restrained undercurrent of aggression since Regulus put them in their place. For now, they’re willing to play his game and let him call the shots, but Regulus knows it won’t last forever.

The seconds tick away. Regulus holds his muscles still to keep himself from sprinting somewhere. Anywhere.

“What do you reckon, Black?” Mulciber says to break the silence. “Think we’ll get a shot at them?”

Regulus stares at Mulciber, then Avery where he watches from over Mulciber’s shoulder.

Then Regulus apparates away, just barely catching their expressions shifting towards shock and outrage.

Regulus hardly gives himself time to assess his surroundings when he lands in dense, oppressively quiet trees. He shifts into the cat and allows his superior senses to point him towards the nearest people.

Then he’s off running, as fast as his sprinter’s body will take him through underbrush and over logs.

He freezes in a patch of shadow missed by the watery moonlight when he sees the first glint off a silver mask. The Death Eater moves silently through the forest, wand drawn. Regulus makes his way around until he sees the next one a few minutes later. He gauges their trajectories. Notes how they spread out to form a loose ring around the distant clearing.

He bounds through the woods again on soft paws that make no sound. Even if he were spotted, he’d be nothing more than a slim shadow slithering through a gap in the branches. Hardly anything that couldn’t be blamed on a trick of the night.

Regulus makes it to the edge of the trees before all the Death Eaters are in place. He looks out at the old town hall, two stories with cheery golden light spilling from layers of orderly windows. There are trees on three sides and a lonely little dirt road meandering its way to the front doors. Regulus can guess where certain megalomaniacs might position themselves if they were to aim for maximum drama.

But Voldemort is still in the trees, hasn’t stepped into the road yet.

Regulus still has time. A few precious minutes.

He darts out of the tree line and draws a quick path through grass still soggy from the last rain.

*

Monty sits in an old wooden chair next to Effie, one of many arranged at the railing of the wrap-around mezzanine in the hall. The chair had given a cartoonish creak with his weight, and the room, with its high ceilings and dozens of duplicates of the same chair, is never quiet even in the breaths between sentences.

From where he looks down on the cluster of Order members in their own seats, Monty can see patterns move through crowd: fatigued slouches and rallying efforts to pull themselves up straight, clasped hands and tense shoulders when something of particular interest comes up, a gravitational pull to the person next to them as they lean in to whisper a comment. Despite the late hour, they’re alert and attentive. The success with Sekjar Yaxley last week had been a buoy to the whole Order.

It’s rare they have a meeting of such great attendance, not everyone but most. Dumbledore is not present, which doesn’t really surprise. Instead Moody has been holding court. He’s a bit younger than Monty and Effie, but the first time he’d met him Monty couldn’t help but notice just how much expertise and paranoia (and scars) the man has been able to accumulate already in his lifetime. He struck Monty as someone who never made the same mistake twice. Not a bad man to entrust with your life. Or, in this case, many lives.

He and Effie had laughed over drinks with a few other Order members who knew James and Sirius about how the boys would react when sat before someone like Moody. They wouldn’t know what to do with him at first. Then, inevitably, Moody would have to teach them a hard lesson about something they’d messed up out of some overestimation of their abilities. They’d be cowed for sure, in the same way Minerva McGonagall had always been able to instill the fear of god in them. But it would quickly shift to respect, and from there to hero worship. They were smart boys; they knew when they could learn a thing or two.

Monty and Effie didn’t talk about the boys with many members of the Order. They preferred to keep them both out of this as long as possible, even though they were well aware that the time was very near when James and Sirius would find their own way in. The few people they did have these conversations with—the McKinnons, the Fenwicks, Daedalus Diggle, Arabella Figg, to name a few—all had children of their own, or grandchildren, or nieces and nephews. They were the wiser bunch among the crowd, more understanding of that acidic undercurrent of fear that laced every sentence with James or Sirius’s name in it. They were the ones who watched with held breath and fluttering hands when the younger members jumped into the dangerous missions with glee. Some days Monty felt like Meghan McKinnon with her punk boots and Caradoc Dearborn with his natural charisma and the Prewett twins with their quick matching smiles were just portents for James and Sirius’s inevitable arrival. Placeholders for more children about to be funneled into the war.

Down below, they were collecting volunteers to investigate shipments from the vampire clans they had intercepted. After the meeting, Monty would convene with the small contingent of potioners he worked with to discern what ingredients they could salvage from the haul that could be safely repurposed for their own missions. Effie would check in with the other healers, but they hadn’t been of much need yet, for which Monty is grateful.

Effie sighs next to him and he rubs her back once to communicate his sympathy. The end is still a while off. He lets his gaze drift across the hall, over the shadows stuck above lofty crossbeams, the grizzled wood of the floor that he can see between chairs. It had probably once hosted lines of dancing feet to scuff its polish. Perhaps it was doused with careless splashes from drinks spilled over delighted laughter. Along the walls, empty frames still hang and the ghostly stains of others removed still remain.

That’s how he sees movement at the lower window.

The night presses firmly against the glass panes, which are too busy reflecting the warm light from within to see anything beyond. But it’s the motion that catches his attention.

A shadow has detached from the gloom and flickers at the corner of the window. Monty squints and leans forward in his chair, adjusts his glasses. He holds himself as still as he can on the railing and watches that same spot for another sign of movement.

There, again.

He can make out two paws scrabbling ineffectively against the glass.

He thinks he knows it’s the very same cat from Christmas—James’s cat—before he gets a better look at it, but then it stills and plants its front paws on the window pane. It ducks its head closer and looks through the glass over the crowd of ignorant heads. Silver eyes track up the stairs and along the mezzanine before they reach Monty’s, already locked on.

They stare at each other from across the room.

Then the cat lifts one paw from the window and sets it back in the same place.

It does it again.

Almost like it’s knocking.

Monty is up and out of his chair before he knows what he’s doing.

He hears Effie whisper his name but ignores her. It’s three quick strides to the window behind him on the second floor.

He cups his hands between his forehead and the glass and lets his eyes adjust. The black field solidifies down below, then the spiky line of trees. Above, the night sky radiates its own thin light.

Just enough to glint off a chrome object that emerges from the forest.

Monty’s heartbeat stutters, an instinctual fear already attuned to the sight of those ghostly masks. He’s very aware of what he looks like from outside, a lone human figure silhouetted in a gold window frame.

Then he’s turning around and pulling Effie out of her chair. He throws himself against the banister just as Moody’s about to move on to the next order of business.

“We’re under attack! Get out!”

Heads whip up to where he stands above, and then people are out of their seats. One crack of apparition, then more. Moody responds instantly, roaring “Get up! Get out!” as he draws his own wand and slashes it in an arc around his head. Instantly, the lights cut out, shielding their movements from outside eyes. Some of the Order move to join him where he’s positioned himself at the front doors, while others disperse around the room to watch from the sides of windows. The rest grab hold of each other and disappear into the dark in twos and threes.

Then it’s oddly quiet like all the commotion has been sucked away. Rogue chairs litter the shadowed hall, the sad remnants of a party cut short.

Monty and Effie descend the stairs hand in hand and make for Moody and the others who stayed behind. Moody is collecting whatever observations they’ve been able to glean from their vantage, deciding whether it’s worth it to put up a fight while they have all their best wands assembled here.

Before they can make it to the front of the room, though, Monty jerks to a halt next to the window where he saw the cat. It’s still there, looking back at him.

“Monty,” Effie whispers and clutches his arm.

The cat stares into Monty. Then it deliberately looks up. Towards the old wooden ceiling.

Monty sucks in a breath. He fumbles his wand from his pocket with a shaking hand.

“The roof,” he says to himself, to Effie, then louder, “They’re going for the roof!”

Moody hears him, aims his own wand up towards the soaring rafters like Monty has his.

Just in time for the first massive crack to split the building in two.

*

Regulus doesn’t make it back to Hogwarts until around dawn.

When he does, he’s running.

There’s blood dripping down his face from a cut on his forehead, courtesy of falling timber when the town hall had finally collapsed, and he’s got a multitude of other scrapes and bruises beneath his robes. There’s something really painful, really fucking annoying, happening with one side of his ribs that’s making it hell to run.

But he does.

He swings around corners and picks up speed down the empty hallways, making his way from a remote part of the castle towards where he can hear the distant echoes of chatter from the early population of students filtering down to breakfast.

Behind him, from a few halls away, he can hear pounding footsteps chasing after him and an enraged call of “Black!” urging him forward. Avery and Mulciber are hot on his trail.

If Regulus has played this right—and he really needs to—they’ll be spitting mad thinking he ditched them to go pursue his own glory with the Death Eaters attacking the Order. But if they find him beat to hell, they’ll know something is up.

Because none of the Death Eaters got hurt last night. When they’d waded into the rubble of the historic building they’d collapsed, they’d found absolutely nothing.

Not a single body.

Voldemort had roared and lightning had flashed down from a perfectly clear sky.

Regulus hadn’t stuck around for the fallout.

He doesn’t think anyone had noticed the black shadow slinking back into the trees. But it won’t take them long to decide the Order must have seen them coming, and Regulus can’t be caught looking like he’s been hanging out around falling buildings when that happens. Even Avery and Mulciber might be bright enough to put those two together.

Hence, his current hurry.

There are more than two sets of footsteps behind him though, which Regulus attributes to Barty and Evan and Dorcas who he’d run past some hallways ago and who had likely only had to wait a few moments to see Avery and Mulciber out for his blood. They’re probably not far along, but too far to be of any use to Regulus in the state he’s in.

Pink light cuts in from the windows as he throws himself into another corridor. He kind of wants to laugh at how absurd it is that he takes the time to even notice that it’s lovely.

He’s not sure where he’s going, as he skids and almost slips around another corner. He just hopes that he’ll know it when he gets there.

*

The Marauders drag themselves down the corridor towards the Great Hall for breakfast. Sirius and Peter stifle yawns, while Remus and James chat quietly about the next Quidditch match. On days when James has a morning practice, it’s not all that uncommon for the rest of them to use his return as an excuse to get an early start. It agrees with some of them more than others.

They’re nearing the staircases when someone flies around the corner ahead of them, almost crashing bodily into their group, catching themselves just in time.

“Woah,” Sirius says, suddenly much more awake.

Then the four of them are looking at a panting, bloody, sort of wet, wide-eyed Regulus Black.

“Regulus?” Sirius chokes out, which isn’t all that helpful because yes, that is in fact Regulus, dressed in dark tattered robes and streaked with dirt and flaking blood. But James doesn’t give him shit for it cause that’s about as far as his brain has gotten too.

Regulus looks from Sirius, to James, to Remus, to Peter. Then he looks behind him and that’s when James hears running footsteps and incoherent shouts coming from just around the corner.

Regulus looks back to James, then back to Sirius, then finally settles on Remus.

“Lupin,” he hisses with such pointed intention that James finds himself looking to his friend for answers.

Remus and Regulus stare at each other until some understanding dawns on Remus’s face.

Behind Regulus, none other than Avery and Mulciber hurtle around the corner.

In one quick motion, Remus draws back his arm and punches Regulus right across the jaw.

James and Sirius both make sounds that probably don’t mean anything but do plenty to convey their shock, while Remus launches into a shouted tirade, half in Welsh, berating Regulus for… something. James has no idea.

Avery and Mulciber look almost as shocked as James and Sirius probably do as they find Regulus thumbing a line of blood away from his newly split lip. It stains his teeth red as he shakes his curls away from his face and gives Remus a feral grin James has never seen before.

Then he lunges for Remus with hands like claws reaching for his neck and face.

That’s when James stops keeping track of things.

Avery and Mulciber draw their wands. Sirius, James, and Peter do the same. Someone fires first and it narrowly misses where Remus and Regulus have fallen to the floor to tear at each other.

Then three more people—Crouch, Rosier, and Dorcas—appear in the hallway and jump into the fray.

Crouch has Mulciber on the ground and wandless, while Peter nurses a swelling eye. Rosier and James have turned their attention to Avery, and Dorcas rushes to where Sirius is trying to detangle the pile of limbs that is Regulus and Remus.

It probably only lasts a few minutes, but then Avery and Mulciber are both sprawled on the ground out like lights. James and Peter are dragging Remus, with a bloody nose and a bruised cheekbone, back by his shoulders while Sirius and Dorcas pin Regulus to the ground.

The eight of them pant and look at each other for who’s going to make the next move. James imagines an innocent passerby stumbling into the scene like some fucked up renaissance painting.

Then through heavy breaths, Remus says, “Alright, Black?”

Regulus smiles and fresh blood dribbles out of his split lip. He lowers his head to the ground and croaks out, “Alright.”

Sirius looks between his boyfriend, restrained by his best friends, and his estranged little brother starfished on the floor.

“Is someone going to explain what the fuck that was, please?”

Despite the fact that most of them probably agree with this sentiment, no one says a word.

Sirius looks helplessly to Remus, where he’s prodding a tooth with his tongue. He looks up when he catches Sirius’s demanding gaze.

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘What?’” Sirius shouts. “You just punched my little brother before eight fucking o’clock in the morning!”

“I resent that you’re implying there’s an appropriate time of day to punch me,” Regulus mutters from underneath him.

Sirius turns his attention to Regulus.

“Is there? You don’t seem to hold many stipulations for when to start accumulating injuries!” Sirius says, gesturing to the line of dried blood from his forehead. “Literally what the fuck do you do all night?”

“Yeah, I’m going to have to agree with Sirius on this one, Reg,” Dorcas says as she withdraws from where she’d been holding Regulus to the ground by one shoulder. She sits on the floor by his head and clasps her hands around her knees. “That was just a bit too much with too little context for my tastes.”

“Seconded,” Rosier says behind her, stuffing his wand back in his robes.

“Treason,” Regulus mutters, then he plants his hands and begins the slow process of pushing himself into a sitting position. One of his arms buckles and he grimaces in pain, curling in to shield his right side. James takes an aborted step forward as he finally sits up into a tired slump.

“Not that I’m not always down to throw spells at Avery and Mulciber,” Crouch says, shaking his robes into order, “but I think maybe we should start with why this specific instance was necessary? If only so I can better tailor my hexes to the occasion.”

“And also why you were sprinting through the castle at dawn.”

“And also why you look like you fought a hippogriff.”

“And also why you actually fought Remus Lupin.”

Regulus sighs and drags his hands down his face. Now that James gets a better look, there’s fine grey dust in his hair that also clings to the blood on his face. The early signs of bruises disappear into the neck of his robes, and he’s still curled protectively to one side of his body. James thinks he looks like he hasn’t slept in a solid month. It’s all the more concerning that James saw him a few days ago and he didn’t look nearly this ragged.

Regulus opens dull eyes and rattles off a list of unsatisfying answers.

“I was running through the castle cause Avery and Mulciber were chasing me. They were chasing me cause I pissed them off. I did not fight a hippogriff. I fought Lupin cause I needed an excuse for looking like I’d fought a hippogriff. And he was kind enough to provide me with one.” Regulus scratches at his curls. “Though if we’re being technical, he started it.”

Remus huffs a laugh at that. He’s the only one who seems to find it funny.

Sirius covers his eyes with a hand where he crouches next to Regulus on the floor.

Peter and James just kind of gape at how Regulus can say so much and yet provide absolutely no helpful information of any kind.

Crouch, Rosier, and Dorcas exchange a dark look with each other.

“Right,” Dorcas clips, and grabs Regulus under the shoulder. She hauls him up despite his sucked breath when it pulls on some unseen injury. Crouch is already moving to his other side and threading his arm through Regulus’s. Rosier steps forward and plucks Regulus’s wand from his pocket.

“We’re going to go put this one in timeout and have a little nonnegotiable chat,” Dorcas says, and the Slytherins turn back towards the dungeons.

Both Sirius and James make immediate protests, but Dorcas fixes them with a petrifying stare.

“We’ll handle this,” she says. “You’ll get your turn. But not right now.”

Then without any further ado, they frog march Regulus around the corner and out of sight.

James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter are left to gaze at the space they vacated.

Sirius stands and folds his arms. He reluctantly pulls himself away from where he looks like he wants to go after Regulus and turns his attention to Remus. He studies him for a moment; James gets the impression that the fight shook him up more than he’s letting on. Then there's a sickening jolt when he remembers the last time Sirius probably watched someone hit his brother.

Remus seems to understand this implicitly and submits himself to Sirius’s scrutiny. If Sirius finds him lacking, James knows Remus will take his blame as deserved.

Some private communication passes between them and the tension drains from Sirius’s shoulders. He scoops his hair up and twists it into a bun with his wand.

“How’d you know he needed a cover?” Sirius asks. He accepts Regulus’s twisted but effective logic with an ease James doesn’t quite have yet. James is still busy trying to figure out how Regulus decided that getting punched in the face was the best course of action. Merlin, they haven’t even had breakfast yet.

“Dunno, honestly,” Remus says. “He kinda seemed like he needed it.”

“He always needs a good punch,” Sirius mutters.

Remus smirks at that.

“Wanted it, then.”

Sirius blows out of breath and rolls his neck, visibly discarding the events of the past fifteen minutes.

“Maybe he just wanted an excuse to hit you.”

Remus chuckles.

“Still, you can’t deny it was rather stupidly clever.”

James shakes his head at the easy way Remus adopts Regulus’s reasoning.

“Why though?” he complains. “Why can’t it be like ‘Regulus Black eats breakfast looking refreshed from a full eight hours of sleep’?”

“Godric, that would be much too easy, wouldn’t it?” Sirius says, rolling his eyes. “Always has to be something with him.”

Then he sticks his hands in his pockets.

“C’mon,” he says starting towards the stairs. “Let’s get food. It’s too early to talk about this shit.”

*

Regulus doesn’t even try to fight it as Dorcas, Evan, and Barty steer him back towards the dungeons. In a way, it’s kind of nice to have it all taken out of his hands for a while. The sleepless night and multiple superficial injuries are catching up with him. He thinks his body is quite close to just closing up shop if he doesn’t start listening to it.

When they get to their dorm, they close the door and lock it. Then they deposit Regulus on Barty’s bed. Dorcas drops herself on the end, and Evan sits on his bed right next to it. Barty posts himself up at the door like Regulus might try to make a run for it. He won’t.

They stare at him and he stares back.

“Are we waiting for something or…?”

“Just a minute,” Barty replies cryptically.

“Brilliant,” Regulus sighs and sinks back onto the pillows. “Wake me when we’re ready.”

He might actually have drifted off for a few cloudy minutes because he’s surprised by a soft knock on the door. Barty opens it to Pandora, who smiles and strides in with a levitating trail of breakfast foods from the kitchen bobbing along behind her. She directs them to cover Evan and Barty’s beds and then sits herself next to Dorcas. Barty drops down beside Evan and folds his arms.

Then they’re staring at him again.

Regulus could probably guess what they want him to start talking about, but damn him if he’s every been easy. He’s going to make them say it.

Dorcas rolls her eyes, never one to deal with anybody’s bullshit.

“Reg, we need to talk about this,” she says resigned.

“Talk about what?”

“Don’t get bitchy,” Barty cuts in to Regulus's surprise. Barty’s usually more willing than most to laugh off topics of concern, too aware of what’s actually a big deal to be worried about every little thing. But he doesn’t look like he’s laughing now. He looks pissed and completely unamused with the whole thing. “We’ve had enough.”

“You are aware you’ve spent basically this entire school year either physically and mentally unwell or recovering from being physically and mentally unwell?”

“Just in time to then become physically and mentally unwell again,” Evan adds.

Regulus looks between them, unsure where this is going.

“Yes?”

“Great, cause we’ve noticed that too,” Barty says, slapping his legs once. “Evan. The list, if you would.”

And Evan actually leans over to rummage around in his nightstand and pull out a hastily scribbled piece of paper. He clears his throat.

“September: subject arrives to school twitchy, paranoid, fatigued. Other common symptoms of schizophrenia may be cause for further inquiry,” he reads in an official tone. Regulus squints at him, but he continues on without notice.

“Behaviors continue through autumn until November 1st when subject takes ill for 18 to 24 hours. Cites stomach virus, little credible evidence thereto.”

“Credible evidence-?“

“Excuse me," Evan cuts him off. "Early January: subject returns to school favoring injuries. Refuses to disclose full extent to concerned parties. Late February: subject takes ill for two to three days with headache, nausea-“

“Okay, yeah, I’m getting the picture-“

“Fever, extreme fatigue, low morale. Subject under review by cabinet of qualified medical professionals.”

“I hope you don’t mean yourselves-“

“Late April,” Evan smacks the paper down on the bed and pins Regulus with a look. “Subject appears visibly injured and in significant distress. Subject provokes further sources of injury in public. Do you see what’s happening here, Reg, do you see what we might be getting at?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve got it, thanks,” Regulus snaps. It’s nothing he doesn’t know, and nothing they don’t know, but it’s humiliating to have his whole pitiful rollercoaster of a year laid out like that. On paper, he sounds like he should be in and out of a mental ward.