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Chapter Text

Prologue

August 18th, 1976

The Grimmauld Place

Hush now, darling, close your eyes,

The serpent sings in silver lullabies.

The humming is steady, honeyed, in his ears. He can feel the warm breaths across his cheek as the words are whispered like a secret to his ear. It's all he can focus on. It's all he hears. Everything else is slipping away.

Follow the halls where silence grows,

Keep to the path the old blood knows.

Iron floods his mouth. He fights it, fights the burn that sears through his skin like fire. The dagger is pressed to his skin, hotter than flame, but he does not flinch.

He cannot.

He must not.

Every scrap of control left in him is spent holding still. He wants to scream, but the scream is locked somewhere behind his teeth. He's fighting to keep it there.

Bleed for pride and bleed for grace

only for honour, none for disgrace.

Fingers curl around his jaw. There is a gentle stroke along his cheek, but it is not meant to soothe. It is meant to send cold shivers down his spine. Meant to test him. And then, long nails dig into his skin like thorns. He bites his tongue. Hard. Until he can only taste blood.

Mind the stone and heed the breath,

Stillness is louder--

The humming stops suddenly. There is a heartbeat of silence, and then he realises he flinched. Ever so slightly.

"Hold still, little star," she whispers, her face hovering just inches from his. He can smell crushed cherries and blood. It makes his stomach twist. "This is the only way you will remember who you are."

Stillness is louder when danced with death.

The humming resumes, softer now, as if coaxing a child to sleep. And he slips again. Out of the room. Out of his body. Out of this reality. He thinks of the brightest star in the night sky. It's his favourite star.

Kneel for the crown,

Kneel for the vow you must not break.

There is a sharp click as metal meets stone, and the burning finally stops. A finger traces down his arm, feather-light, following the raw path of the wound, of the scar that will never fade.

"Toujours pur," she breathes. "Always pure. Always ours."

August 18th, 1977

The Grimmauld Place

Maybe Regulus had always been this way. Cold and dark inside.

Not everyone can wash blood from their hands.

You have to be broken for that, Regulus thinks.

The room is suffocating with silence.

The only sound is coming from the candles: their flames crackle faintly as if whispering secrets, dancing in time with the tick of the ancient clock above the mantel. It's the only thing that moves.

Tick Tock.

Reminding Regulus with every second that he stands there. Unmoving. Hands clasped behind his back. Chin held high.

He stands because sitting would be a betrayal of his nerves. He won't give them that. He's not nervous, he repeats to himself. He is prepared for whatever comes.

Every portrait of the room has their eyes closed. But they are not sleeping. They are waiting with him, holding their breaths. They have seen it all, everything that has happened under their watchful eyes through the generations. But Regulus thinks that this is what they have been all waiting for. This moment.

Slowly, the door creaks open. The flames tremble, and cold air seeps into the room.

"Regulus Black." A soft voice whispers. But it's not gentle with warmth.

A figure emerges from the door, and Regulus angles his head ever so slightly.

There is a soft tap on the marble floor. Like bare feet drag into the room. A black cloak sweeps the floor behind him, and with the rise of a pale hand, the door slams shut. The hand looks dead. Skinless. Like something exhumed.

"It has come to my attention," the voice says, "that you are ready to walk in my shadow."

The hood hides his face, but the air shifts with his presence. He lifts his fingers, pale and corpse-like, and flicks them once. Every candle in the room snuffs out.

Darkness swallows everything whole.

Regulus fights to not roll his eyes because this is ridiculous. It's not like he doesn't know who is standing in front of him. It's not like he doesn't know what's coming. These theatrics are pathetic. He can't believe he is going to let a stick figure with a god complex tell him what to do.

Keep to the path the old blood knows.

The hum slithers through him like a memory. Regulus straightens, lifting his chin. He hasn't forgotten why he's here. This is who he is now. A legacy in the making.

Which unfortunately means taking orders from someone who looks like a stick figure brought to life and set on fire. A stick figure he could have drawn better himself.

"I am sure you understand, Regulus Black, that I need to test you first. See where your loyalties truly lie." Voldemort speaks.

Who would name their child Voldemort? No one. Not even someone who hates their child would name them that. Voldemort is a made-up name. There had to be another name before Voldemort. There just had to be.

As if he can hear Regulus' thoughts, the figure glides closer. Regulus feels it then, a presence brushing against the edges of his mind. Light as a caress. Sharp nails scratching bone.

Narcissas's lessons from the summer meet it. The bone cage he's built to protect his thoughts.

Do you really think I'd come unprepared? He thinks. But he says nothing. Just watches the hooded figure with all the stillness of a statue.

Voldemort finally lifts his head. Regulus meets his eyes. He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. Not the gaping voids that look less like eyes and more like something hollowed out. The pupils are slitted like a serpent's, and for a moment, a flicker of red gleams in their depths. It's not human. Not even close. Like he's touched something that shouldn't be touched and paid the price.

Voldemort's lips curl into something like a smile. The pressure against Regulus' mind sharpens. "Good," he whispers, clearly pleased. "You have come prepared, Regulus Black."

"I might have underestimated you," he says, voice smooth, almost amused.

Regulus arches an eyebrow in response.

"You see, I don't usually let children into my ranks. Too weak. Too untrained."

Regulus wants to scoff. Then maybe you should stop recruiting from Hogwarts. But he only nods as if he understands. As if he agrees.

"But you," Voldemort steps closer, voice a low murmur, "perhaps you'll prove yourself after all. Perhaps you'll walk a path no other Black has walked before."

Regulus can't help but wonder if Voldemort has trained himself to speak like that. If he thinks it's more intimidating to talk in riddles and half sentences.

"It has come to my attention," Voldemort says, tone shifting, "that there is a prophecy in the making. It has not yet been spoken fully."

Regulus' interest piques immediately. But he keeps his face neutral. Nods again.

"But I have heard the whisper of it," Voldemort continues. "A boy." He spits the word like it's poison. "One destined to be the Dark Lord's undoing."

"Dumbledore believes in this nonsense, of course. He would put his faith in whispers and riddles and let them take root, fester like weeds. He would let it spread, let the idea breathe." His voice drops lower, "And I do not tolerate such things taking a breath."

His eyes glint red again. "And so we must ensure it doesn't."

Now Regulus is truly listening. A prophecy? What kind? Who spoke it? Why would Voldemort, of all people, take it seriously? Prophecies are just predictions. They don't always come true.

"All we have," Voldemort says softly, "is a bloodline. One family who continues to defy me. Pure, yes, but foolish. Proud. Loyal to the wrong side."

He tilts his head slightly, studying Regulus with something like amusement. "They've already lived longer than they should have. And they have only one heir. A son who is soon to come of age. Care to guess, Regulus?"

His mouth goes dry. His heart stumbles, then starts pounding like it's trying to break through his ribs.

He knows the answer.

"James Potter."

Voldemort's smile is slow and cruel. "Clever boy."

Regulus is fairly certain he is no longer breathing. He tries to fight it, tries to stay calm, still, sharp. But his lungs ache, and his spine feels frozen.

Kneel for the vow you must not break.

He gathers himself. Forces his gaze to meet Voldemort's.

He knows what's coming now.

"Do what your blood demands of you," Voldemort says, "Remove this threat. James Potter must die. And he must die well. No mess. No traces. No blade, no spell, no shadow of suspicion. Dumbledore is a man of questions. I do not want him to have any."

His tone shifts, becoming firmer and colder.

"You will not fail me."

It's no longer a request. It's an order carved in bone.

"And you will be rewarded," he adds, and then, of course, his eyes flick to Regulus's right arm.

He knows.

And that knowledge makes Regulus want to break something. Tear through something. Scream.

Voldemort sees it. The flicker of something sharp and real on Regulus's face. The slip.

He smiles. Pleased. Like a serpent watching its prey.

"Hmm..." Voldemort hums, a mockery of affection. "Don't worry, little Black. You'll earn a real mark soon enough. If you succeed, that is. If you don't... Well, I have another use for you."

And then Voldemort vanishes, swallowed by the dark like smoke curling back into the void.

Regulus doesn't move. He waits until the cold lifts, until the last trace of shadow slinks from the room.

The room is quiet again. Too quiet. The candles remain unlit. The portraits keep their eyes closed.

He breathes in, slow and shaky. It hurts. His chest feels tight like something inside him is splintering. His breath hitches. His legs threaten to give out. And then, as if on cue, somewhere in the back of his mind, the soft hum echoes again. It's always there. Regulus cannot outrun it. Cannot hide from it. Cannot shut it out. Not even the bone cages he built around his mind can keep it away.

Hush now, darling, close your eyes,

The serpent sings in silver lullabies.

His throat tightens. Something flickers in his chest; something warm, something wrong. He's not supposed to feel this. Not anymore. He is meant to be frost and bone and all things cold.

But he lets it wash over him, just for a breath.

One last time.

Follow the halls where silence grows,

Keep to the path the old blood knows.

He swallows it down. Every part of him. Every sound. Every breath. Everything he could have been.

Regulus Black straightens, spine sharp, chin held high, and turns to leave the room.

He doesn't look back.

He is going to kill James Potter.

Chapter Text

"One more round!" The shout cuts through the crisp morning air.

"Come on, Gryffindors! This is pathetic. You're slower than flobberworms! We are not going to beat Slytherin at this pace. Lions are fast, lions are strong. Right now, you're neither. McKinnon, what in the name of Merlin do you think you're doing? That's not the finish line! Keep. Going."

James barely registers Carter's relentless barking. His ears are ringing, his lungs burning as he pushes himself past the final stand of the Quidditch pitch. He's lost track of how many times they've circled the field, but the second his foot crosses the invisible finish, his legs give out beneath him. He crashes onto the soft grass, still damp with morning dew, and lets it welcome him like an old friend. The cool earth presses against his overheated skin as he drags in deep breaths, inhaling the scent of wet grass and churned-up dirt.

A thud lands beside him, followed by a breathless chuckle.

"Slower than flobberworms…" Sirius huffs, sprawled on his back. "Carter's really losing his credibility."

James rolls onto his back, staring up at the sky. The early morning blue is too bright, almost shimmering with tiny pinpricks of light. No, that's just his exhaustion. He rubs a hand over his face, trying to catch his breath.

"I thought we were flying, Carter!" Sirius shouts, dragging the hem of his shirt across his sweat-damp forehead. "Last time I checked, we were wizards, not Muggles."

"Last time I checked, we lost the House Cup to Slytherin, Black," Carter shoots back. "We were too confident in our skills on a broom. We won't make that mistake again. We need stamina. We need core strength. And you don't get that just by sitting on a broomstick. You get that by running. By hard work."

Sirius groans dramatically. "He does know we're technically not even back to school yet, right?" he mutters.

James grins. Fair point. They'd only returned to Hogwarts last night. Welcomed the new Gryffindors, suffered through Dumbledore's speech about heightened security, curfews, Aurors patrolling Hogsmeade, and the grave, growing threat beyond the castle walls. James had listened to precisely none of it. He already knows; all summer, he and Sirius listened to it. They eavesdropped on every conversation his parents had with people James had never even met before. It had been a busy summer at the Potter household, so no, James wasn’t paying attention to a single word Dumbledore was saying. Instead, he and Sirius were planning a romantic midnight stroll through the school grounds, also known as checking whether their favourite secret passages still worked. It was tradition; they did it at the start of every school year.

But then Carter had shattered everyone's hopes and dreams by announcing that Gryffindor's Quidditch training would begin promptly at five in the bloody morning. Even James had protested because five was early, and he would be the one dragging Sirius out of bed, not Carter. But Carter had stood firm, and now here they were, running laps around the Quidditch pitch like they were racing the sunrise.

They better beat Slytherin this year.

"We are back to school the moment we set foot on Hogwarts grounds," Carter shouts. "And you, Black, since you've got so much energy to bark around, I'm starting to think I didn't make you run hard enough."

A groan of protest comes from somewhere near James. McKinnon. She's cursing Sirius under her breath.

Sirius, utterly unbothered, stretches his arms above his head like this is all some minor inconvenience to him. "Now, now, captainess dogs bark. I am not a dog. At least, last time I checked." He gives a lazy wave of his hand, smirking.

James barely suppresses a snort.

"That's it," Carter snaps, clapping his hands together once. "Everyone, up. One more round!"

There's a beat of silence before someone cracks, an outright cackle echoing through the field. It's James. He cackles. Because this is ridiculous, and he's pretty sure he physically cannot get up. His legs feel like overcooked spaghetti.

"I hate you, Black," McKinnon mutters, shoving herself to her feet.

Sirius grins, all teeth. "You love me." Then he turns to James and extends a hand. "Come on, Prongs. Care to race me one more time?" His eyes gleam with mischief. Daring. Trouble.

James doesn't hesitate. He clasps Sirius' hand, lets himself be hauled up, and smirks. "You'll never beat me, Pads."

Then he takes off.

Sirius' indignant squawk is lost in the rush of wind as James sprints ahead, laughing, not even bothering to hear whatever insult is inevitably thrown after him.

One eternity later, Carter reluctantly lets them go, and James and Sirius drag themselves for breakfast in the Great Hall. The moment they step inside, the smell hits James like a revelation; breakfast has never smelled so good.

He practically collapses onto the bench and starts scooping anything within reach onto his plate. Beans, bacon, toast, fried eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms. His fork hovers just inches from the sausages. So close. If he just stretches a little more… damn it, not long enough. He really wanted a sausage.

"James?"

Remus' voice cuts through his focus on the sausages, snapping him out of what was definitely a trance… not that he really knows what a trance feels like, but he is pretty sure it has to feel something like that.

"Would you like some sausages?" Remus asks, holding the bowl just a little closer, his expression bordering on amusement.

James grins, grabbing a few. "You're a lifesaver, Moony."

"I take it Quidditch went well, then?" Remus asks, reaching for his own toast.

"Quidditch? What Quidditch?" Sirius exclaims, throwing a dramatic hand in the air. "We didn't even see our brooms. For all I know, Carter set them on fire. We ran, Moony. Like common Muggles. I miss my broom. The way it feels in my hands..." He sighs wistfully.

"Okay, get a room," Peter snorts.

"He's not wrong," James mumbles through a mouthful of food. "Carter told us he spent all summer learning the tactics of ballfoot. Picked up a load of training exercises that don't involve flying. At all."

"Football," Remus grins.

"What?"

"It's called football, not ballfoot, James. That Muggle sport."

James waves a hand, swallowing before spearing another sausage. "Whatever. I miss Longbottom. He was a great captain."

"He's an auror now, isn't that crazy?" Peter mumbles, "He just graduated a couple of months ago, and now he's an Auror."

"The Ministry's desperate," Remus says, voice low.

"I heard he's in the Order too," Peter adds, just as quietly.

James nods, chewing thoughtfully. "Yeah, he is. He came over this summer. Had some Order business with my dad. Sirius and I tried to eavesdrop, but they blocked us out. Apparently, we can't join until we've graduated. Bullshit, really." He pushes himself up from the bench, grabbing a stray piece of bacon as he does. "Anyway, gotta go."

"But we've got Slughorn next," Peter frowns. "Double Potions."

"Yeah, well, I need a shower first. I'll use the prefects' one. Sirius gets ours. I lost Wand, Cloak, Dragon to that one," James points his bacon accusingly at Sirius, "he beat me with Cloak again. Every bloody time."

Sirius flicks his still-sweaty hair with dramatic flair. "It's because your tactics are tragic, my dear Prongs. You always throw Dragon after I beat you with Wand."

Remus shakes his head, amused. "Can't believe you two are still playing that game three years later."

"It's bloody brilliant, Moony," Sirius says, smirking. "Then again, so are you. But you already know that."

James watches as a faint blush dusts the tops of Remus' cheeks. It's quick, barely there, but he sees it.

"For the millionth time," Remus mutters, taking a sip of his coffee, "I didn't invent Rock, Paper, Scissors. It's an old Muggle tradition."

"Yeah, but Wand, Cloak, Dragon is a Marauder tradition, and you came up with it." Sirius winks.

It's true. Moony did come up with it after growing increasingly frustrated trying to explain the point of Rock, Paper, Scissors to the three of them. James still isn't entirely sure he gets it. Wand, Cloak, Dragon just make more sense.

"Because you lot are such knobheads sometimes," Remus says dryly.

"Oh, you love us!" Sirius smirks and steals a piece of burnt bacon off Remus' plate like he does every day.

"Oi," Remus says, but there's no real heat to it.

"What?" Sirius says around a mouthful of bacon. "You never eat the burnt edges."

"Yeah, but they are still my burnt edges." Remus mumbles.

Sirius arches an eyebrow and places his elbows on the table, leaning in closer to Remus, "And what are you going to do about it."

Remus opens his mouth to respond, then pauses. Before Sirius can register what's happening, Remus reaches across the table and snatches Sirius' half-eaten crumpet off his plate. Sirius yelps in protest, but Remus is already biting into it.

"How dare you!" he gasps, slapping both hands on the table like he's been personally betrayed. Sirius always saves his crumpet for last and lets the butter sink in properly. He says it tastes better that way.

James snorts, shaking his head. "Alright, I'm off," he says, grabbing his bag and tossing Peter an apologetic look for abandoning him to this chaos.

As he turns to go, he catches the way Remus is still chewing smugly, taking slow bites, and Sirius is still gaping at him like it's the most shocking thing he's ever witnessed.

Yeah. Just another normal morning. James smiles to himself; Merlin, did he miss having all his friends together.

He stretches his arms above his head as he steps out of the Great Hall, rolling out the stiffness in his shoulders. The castle is cool, the early morning chill clinging to the stone walls. The enchanted ceiling had been bright with sunrise when they first dragged themselves to breakfast, but now the corridors are washed in softer light, torches flickering in their sconces, illuminating the worn tapestry of Hogwarts waking up.

The castle hums with life around him. First years rushing past in too-big robes, trying to remember their way to class; portraits grumbling as students disturb their morning naps; the distant chime of moving staircases shifting above. James knows the route by heart, slipping past a pair of Hufflepuffs deep in conversation and nodding at a Ravenclaw prefect who gives him a suspicious look. James shouts a cheery hello at him. Not guilty until proven otherwise. And even then, there is always a way around it. Because, well... Prefect's bathroom; he doesn't technically have access, but since when has that ever stopped him?

He reaches the familiar statue of Boris the Bewildered and murmurs the password he got from Remus last night to the door. Warm steam curls into the air, the scent of lavender and something citrusy mixing with the lingering chill clinging to his skin. He sighs, rolling his shoulders as he toes off his shoes.

He peels off his sticky Quidditch jersey and tosses it carelessly onto the floor beside his bag. He's about to drop his sweatpants when a soft, almost imperceptible sound breaks through the mist. A faint rustle. The whisper of a page turning.

James freezes.

He can't see anyone through the thick steam and frothy bubbles swirling in the massive bathtub. His eyes flick to the mermaid in the window, but she only shrugs, smirking like she's enjoying the show.

He narrows his eyes, and his heartbeat kicks up just a little. He moves toward the row of stalls, pushing the first door open --

And then everything happens too fast.

A flicker of movement. Someone curses. There is a scrape of fabric against a stone.

Before James can even register what he's looking at, Regulus Black is on his feet. There's a cauldron... was that a cauldron? But it vanishes too fast. Then, suddenly, James is shoved backwards, the cold stone wall biting against his bare skin, and there's the unmistakable pressure of a wand against his neck.

"Potter," Regulus speaks quietly. "You shouldn't be here."

James exhales sharply, "Oh really?"

Regulus just stares at him, the wand digging into James' skin, forcing him to lift his chin. And James deflects because, frankly, he has no idea what is going on right now and why Regulus is so close to him. "You say that like you're supposed to be here,"

"I'm a prefect, Potter." Regulus snarls.

James blinks. "Oh? They really let just anyone be a prefect these days, huh?" James can't help but smirk. It is in his nature. He's teasing, pushing, because it's too easy. It always has been. Regulus hates James with some sharp-edged, deep-rooted passion like James has committed some unforgivable crime towards him. But he hasn't. In fact, he's always been relatively decent to Sirius's little brother, never going out of his way to bother him. And yet, to Regulus, James is nothing more than dirt beneath his shoe, something he can't quite scrape off, no matter how hard he tries.

"Get out," Regulus whispers.

James raises his hands in surrender, his expression unreadable. "You're the one holding a wand to my throat."

Regulus arches a single brow, unbothered, unmoving. And then, he presses in just a fraction harder.

James' breath hitches.

Something is wrong.

Something is so very, utterly wrong because he should be alarmed. His instincts should be screaming at him to move, to disarm, to fight. But they aren't.

All he can focus on is how close Regulus is. So close that James can see the slow, deliberate shift of his throat when he swallows. He can feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over his skin.

James has never been this close to Regulus before. He has never even truly looked at him, has he? Obviously not, because he's Sirius' brother. And Sirius stays away from Regulus, therefore James stays away from Regulus. It's simple. Clear.

But now, with Regulus standing so close, James can't help himself. His gaze drags over the sharp angles of his face, the cheekbones, the way his mouth is set in a hard, unyielding line, the slight furrow of his brows like he's barely containing the urge to hex James into oblivion. His hair is slightly messy, like he's run his hand through it countless times, and his eyes... Merlin, his eyes... cold and dark, like the sky just before a storm.

James swallows, forcing himself to look away. He shouldn't be noticing these things. He should be pushing away. But instead, James hums, pretending to think. Because clearly, he's lost his mind. "Mmm. See, that's a problem. I need to shower."

Regulus exhales sharply through his nose, a quiet, controlled fury radiating off of him. "I don't see how that's my problem, Potter. Find another shower."

James grins, slow and lazy, "But this is such a nice shower. And the mermaid seemed to want my company."

Regulus' jaw tightens. "You disgust me."

James lets out a low whistle. "Strong words. You always this charming, or am I just special?"

Regulus' grip on his wand tightens, and for a moment, James genuinely wonders if he's about to get hexed straight into next week. But no. Regulus is too controlled for that, too careful. His fury is a slow burn, not an explosion. That's where he and Sirius are different. Sirius is more of a do first, think later, while Regulus is calculated and clearly never does anything without thinking.

"You are insufferable." The words are razor-sharp, but his voice is steady, clipped like he refuses to give James the satisfaction of knowing he's riled him up.

James, of course, is already well aware.

"Mm, maybe," he muses, tilting his head, deliberately pushing just a little closer. "Doesn't take away the fact that you are still holding your wand at my throat. Wonder why that is? Is it because I'm half naked?"

James has clearly lost his mind.

It's official now. Because what in the name of Merlin is he doing?

Sirius would murder him for this. Regulus is the enemy. And yet, James is... What is he doing? Well, whatever it is, he just can't seem to stop. There's something about the way he stands there, wand pressed against James's throat like a promise. His edges are so sharp in such a beautiful way that it's enchanting. Like he belongs in one of those Muggle history books Remus is always reading, a sculpture, untouchable and utterly captivating.

Regulus jerks back like he's been burned, releasing the pressure on James' neck so suddenly that James nearly stumbles forward from the sheer surprise. Regulus' eyes blaze, his jaw tight, the muscle in it ticking as he lifts his wand and then flicks it toward the door.

"Get out, Potter."

Before James can so much as grin, Regulus' wand jabs toward him again. "Now. Or I'll take ten points from Gryffindor."

James raises an eyebrow, "Wow, Regulus, I'm really shaking in my knees now."

Something seems to snap inside Regulus at that moment.

A sudden, invisible force slams James back against the cold stone wall, locking him in place. He can't move, not even to tilt his head. Fuck. Okay, maybe now he should be a little worried.

Regulus steps forward, wand aimed steadily at James. "Don't call me that."

James exhales. "Call you what? Regulus? Last time I checked, that's your name."

"You don't have the right to call me by my name, Potter."

James tries to cock his head, only to be reminded he's still paralysed. "Well, I can't call you Black either, can I? What am I supposed to call you then? John? You don't seem like a John to me."

Regulus blinks, visibly thrown for a moment. Well, that makes two of them because what is James even saying?

The confusion is fleeting. Regulus recovers faster than James, stepping closer, close enough that James is now acutely aware of every sharp angle of his face. He just forgot about them; bloody hell, why is his mind going back there? Back to Regulus' jawline… has it always been that defined? James definitely hasn't noticed it before. Why is he noticing it now?

Regulus leans in just enough to make James feel the weight of his presence, his voice a low snarl. "I don't want to see you here again, Potter. Do not get in my way."

Then he turns sharply, pockets his wand, and strides toward the door. And James... James still can't move. Bloody hell, that boy is good at nonverbal magic.

Regulus doesn't spare him another glance as he slams the door behind him. A moment later, the invisible force releases James, and he stumbles forward, inhaling deeply like he's just surfaced from underwater.

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Library has always been Regulus' favourite place in the school. He never tires of walking between the towering bookshelves or the silence broken only by the rustle of turning pages and the soft creak of footsteps against the aged wooden floor. It usually calms him, breathing the library air. But tonight, it only feeds his frustration. There are too many books, too many words he simply doesn't have time to read. The injustice of it burns in his chest; time. It's a brutal thing, and he doesn't have enough of it. Not enough to just stop and read every book from cover to cover. He is just one person, and there are only so many hours in the day.

He pulls another book from the shelf. It is thick, bound in deep indigo leather with tiny silver stars carved into the corners. Flowers of the Night Sky. His fingers tingle with the urge to open it, to linger. But it's not what he is looking for. With a sharp exhale, he pushes it back into place.

"So what do you think it means?"

Pandora's voice drifts from his right, and it takes Regulus a moment to register that she has meant the question for him and is expecting an answer.

"You're asking me?" he mutters, plucking another book from the shelf. Whispers of the Wild: Plants That Speak. No. Not it, either. He shoves it back, already reaching for another.

"Obviously," Pandora sighs, shifting her weight against the bookcase, watching him with a quiet sort of patience. He can feel her gaze as he pulls down the next book, The Lunar Orchid and Other Moonlit Blossoms.

"That's a good one," she remarks, nodding toward the cover. "There are so many flowers that only bloom on the full moon, and we miss them while we sleep."

Regulus lifts a brow but says nothing. He flips straight to the glossary, scanning the words. Nothing. With a sharp snap, he shuts the book and slides it back onto the shelf.

"Regulus, please," Pandora whispers.

It's the way she says it that makes him pause. Soft yet laced with something he rarely hears from her; pleading. Slowly, he turns to look at her and takes a deep breath; he can spare her a minute. She is his friend, and that is what friends do. Something is clearly messing with her head, and for some reason, she has chosen to speak to Regulus about it instead of Dorcas, which he doesn't understand, but alas, here they are.

"Alright, tell me again, what happens in the dream?" Regulus asks.

Pandora nods, absently twirling a curl of her hair around her finger. "I'm in a garden. It's deep in the woods, but not like the Forbidden Forest. This one feels… different. Alive in a way I can't explain. Like the magic there is older and wilder. Like fairies could live there."

Regulus says nothing, just watches as she tugs at the strand of hair, lost in thought.

"The garden itself is small, tucked inside a wooden box. There are so many flowers... different kinds, all in bloom. But there is this one flower, a snowdrop," Her voice softens. "It's vibrant and full of life. But the moment I touch it--" She swallows, her fingers tightening in her hair. "The petals blacken, curl inward and crumble into dust."

Regulus studies her carefully, waiting. He knows she isn't finished. He can see it in the slight furrow of her brow.

"It's always my touch," she finally says, her voice quieter now. "Every night. I fall asleep, and I dream of that garden. And that one flower... and once I touch it... It whiters."

She gapes at Regulus, her frost-blue eyes wide. Though, like now, when the light hits them just right, they shift, glimmering lilac. She's waiting for him to say something, and Regulus knows exactly what she doesn't want to hear. That it's just a dream.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly. "Have you looked up the meaning of snowdrops?"

Pandora nods, "They symbolise hope."

"Hmm…" Regulus hums, running his thumb along the spine of a book. "Maybe you're worried about what's happening around us. Hope dying and all that."

She opens her mouth to reply, but whatever she's about to say is cut short by Evan, who appears seemingly out of nowhere, striding down the aisle with purpose.

"Alright, we're leaving!" he announces. Barty follows at his heels, looking far too pleased with himself.

Pandora flicks a glance at Regulus, a silent warning. Don't say a word to her brother. Regulus inclines his head just slightly. It's not his place to tell Evan anything. Not that it would matter; Evan would probably brush it off as just a dream anyway.

"What did Barty do?" Pandora asks, arching an eyebrow as Evan reaches them.

"Oi, what makes you think I did anything?" Barty yelps, all mock innocence.

Pandora just stares at him.

Barty's grin spreads wider. "Alright, fine. But for the record, I managed to levitate eight books behind Pince before she noticed!"

"Wow. A true legacy in the making," Evan deadpans. Then he turns to Regulus. "Did you find your book? We're getting kicked out."

"You're getting kicked out," Regulus corrects, sliding a book back onto the shelf.

Barty sticks out his tongue. "If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me." He snatches Regulus by the arm.

And, as if summoned, the sharp click of Madam Pince's heels echoes from somewhere nearby.

"Come on, Reg, let's go. The sun's setting, and I want to get some flying in before Hooch locks up the broom shed for the night. Stupid new rules don't let us out on the grounds after nine." Barty nudges Regulus to move.

Regulus arches a brow. "Since when do you care about rules?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't," Barty scoffs. "That's why we have to go now."

"Where's Dorcas?" Pandora frowns, falling into step beside them as they weave in the opposite direction of Pince's sharp, echoing footsteps.

The library is quieting down. Most students have already drifted out, leaving behind only the rustle of turning pages and the occasional soft scrape of a chair. The setting sun casts long shadows across the broad windows, and one by one, the reading lamps flicker on with quiet bursts of magic.

"She had to go," Evan says. He doesn't elaborate. Regulus guesses that she refused to tell those busybodies where she was going. He doesn't blame her.

They pass the locked gates of the Restricted Section, and Regulus' gaze lingers on the lock. As if a few rusted bars are going to keep anyone out who really wants to get in. He once read in Hogwarts: A History that there weren't any gates until something happened, and suddenly, they appeared. He could never find a reason or explanation for what had happened. But Regulus suspects someone stole something from the Restricted Section. Something forbidden. Something dangerous. It intrigues him, the idea that whatever it was had been enough to make Dumbledore gate off the entire section. What could possibly be so powerful, so threatening, that even reading about it became off-limits? He'll look into it eventually when he has time.

"I can't wait to get on a broom," Barty grins as they push through the library doors and into the hallway. "Feels like we've been separated for far too long."

"Didn't you fly over the summer?" Evan frowns. "Auror training requires it, doesn't it?"

Barty is quiet for a beat. Then he clears his throat. "I was stuck inside." His eyes flick, barely perceptibly, to Regulus.

Regulus doesn't react. He keeps his expression neutral. Barty's secret is safe.

Evan's brows knit slightly. Regulus can see the question forming, the concern in his posture. But he doesn't push. None of them do, not anymore. They've all learned to stay quiet about the shadows that follow them home. Everyone has their demons, and they each face them in their own way. If someone wants to talk, they will. If not... well, that's that.

"I can't come flying," Regulus says, steering the conversation away from Barty. "I've got prefect rounds tonight."

"Traitor," Barty huffs.

"With who?" Pandora asks.

"Wilkes."

Pandora sighs, long and theatrical. "Uncivilised."

They all grunt in agreement.

Wilkes is a year above them and an insufferable git . Around the school, people whisper that his father is one of Voldemort's followers, Death Eaters, as the Daily Prophet now insists on calling them. Regulus doesn't know who came up with the name, but he hates it. It feels theatrical, like branding. Like claiming.

Everyone in Slytherin knows it's true; Wilkes' father is tied to Voldemort. But to what extent, no one really knows. Regulus doubts even Wilkes himself understands the depth of it. Voldemort keeps his inner circle close, guarded, and entirely his own.

Wilkes, of course, can't shut up about it. He's always bragging loudly and obnoxiously that he knows the Dark Lord and will be branded soon. It's all rubbish, obviously. Because if he did know Voldemort, truly, he wouldn't talk about it. He'd keep it quiet. Like Snape does. Because Regulus is convinced Snape is involved in some way.

"You should test Langlock on him. Or, you know…" Barty grins, eyes glinting. "Just cut his tongue off completely. What's the difference, really?"

"Barty," Pandora says, her voice light with mock disapproval as she swats his arm. But there's a glimmer in her eyes, amusement, not outrage.

Barty looks at her. "What? We all want that asshole silenced."

Pandora tilts her head, considering. A slow smile creeps across her lips, deceptively delicate. "First of all, Langlock has a counter-spell. So it wouldn't be permanent, now would it?"

"Hence why I said cut it off," Barty retorts proudly like it's the obvious solution. Which it is Regulus agrees. Caius Wilkes does not need his tongue.

Evan raises a brow. "And second of all?"

Pandora hums, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Well… if you're going to maim someone, you shouldn't go for the obvious. Predictable violence is boring. Hex him so he hears every insult he's ever said whispered back at him for the rest of the week."

Barty lets out a delighted cackle. "Brutal."

Pandora shrugs, "Just more poetic."

"Remind me never to get on your bad side," Regulus says.

Pandora beams at him, all sugar and starlight. "Don't worry, Reg. You're my favourite."

"Oi!" Evan exclaims, eyebrows shooting up. "Not your brother?"

"You're family, Evan. You don't count."

Barty snorts, "So that just leaves me then,"

"If I did curse you, you would never know it's me," Pandora says sweetly.

"Comforting, truly, thank you, Pandora." Barty nods, mockingly placing his hand on his chest.

A couple of hours later, Regulus stands by the Great Hall's towering double doors, shoulder leaning against the worn stone arch. The final trickle of students filters out in hushed clusters, their laughter subdued, footsteps echoing too loudly in the vastness of the hall. Dumbledore's new curfews have changed everything; no lingering after dinner, everyone needs to go straight into their dorms. It's like even the man himself has given up pretending the school is safe.

Which it isn't. Of course, it isn't. No one is safe anymore.

Regulus watches in silence as the last of the golden platters vanish from the long wooden tables, absorbed with a pop of house-elf magic. Crumbs disappear. Goblets drain and vanish. The tables gleam, polished and suddenly lifeless. One by one, the floating candles above begin to flicker out, their flames dimming into soft wisps of smoke that curl into the enchanted ceiling overhead. Tonight, the ceiling is an overcast sky painted in bruised clouds, moonless and starless.

The air feels colder when the last candle dies. The great oak doors shudder quietly before sealing shut behind him with a deep final thunk.

Wilkes hadn't shown up for patrol, shocking absolutely no one, so Regulus has the castle to himself. Maybe he can make a few quick rounds and then slip off to the library. He is certain the gates to the Restricted Section have been sealed with magic. There have to be spells in place to keep people away. And Regulus needs to find his way around them because he needs to get into that Restricted Section; he just knows what he is looking for is there. Magic always leaves traces. Regulus is certain he can feel them in the air. If only he could stand there in peace, without Madam Pince or anyone else breathing down his neck.

Scratch that thought.

Because standing just ahead, half-lost in the dim corridor light, is Remus Lupin.

Looking at him like he's been waiting. Like he's here for Regulus.

Which, no. He can't be. What would Lupin possibly want from him?

Regulus meets his gaze, cold and bored, then brushes past him without a word.

"We're on patrol together," Lupin speaks.

Regulus doesn't stop. Just shakes his head and keeps walking. Absolutely not.

"Dumbledore's new rules, remember?" Lupin mutters.

Regulus halts. Unfortunately, yes. He remembers.

Prefects are now paired across year groups and houses. Like that would somehow guarantee safety.

He swears under his breath. Of course, out of all the bloody prefects in the castle, he's been dumped with Remus Lupin. It's almost laughable. A joke that smells like Dumbledore.

"It's not like I want to be paired with you either," Lupin says, stepping up beside him.

Regulus believes him.

He's always sensed that out of all Sirius' insufferable little friends, it's Lupin who hates him most. Not in that loud, performative Gryffindor way, either. It's quieter. Sharper. Like a hidden blade that he won't see coming.

Not that Regulus cares what Remus Lupin thinks of him. It just complicates things because how is Regulus supposed to investigate the restricted section with Remus Lupin watching his every move and reporting it all back to his friends.

Regulus exhales slowly, steadying himself. It's fine. Just one evening. A few hours lost. He can try again tomorrow.

Except tomorrow is Quidditch practice.

He clenches his jaw. He'll find time. He has to.

It's fine.

"So why don't we just acknowledge that neither of us wants to be here," Lupin adds, "and get on with it."

Fair. Irritatingly fair.

Regulus nods once curtly. Fine.

"Should we start by checking the Greenhouses?" Lupin asks, already veering slightly in that direction.

"Whatever," Regulus mutters.

He gets why he's suggesting it. People always try to hide behind the Greenhouses, smoking. Last year, it became an issue. Some fifth-years snuck in at night and stole a whole pot of Driftleaf. Professor Sprout had been livid. Apparently, the stuff hits harder when it's dried under moonlight. Someone fell down from the roof of the owlery as they thought they could fly to the night like owls. Idiot.

This time, no one is hiding around the Greenhouses. It's quiet. The whole castle is quiet. They don't find anyone wandering around the first few floors , then on the third floor, they come across a panicked first-year who clearly got lost trying to find her way to the Hufflepuff dormitories. She'd been running up and down the moving staircases, and by the time Lupin reached her, she was crying. She seemed frightened of him, of both of them, because she only started crying harder. Regulus just stood there with his arms crossed, silent, while Lupin crouched to speak to her in a surprisingly gentle tone. Then, they had to escort her to the dungeons; she was fine once she found the familiar dormitory door.

They continued their patrol in silence. And it was strangely nice. Neither of them talked or felt the need to speak to fill the silence lingering in the air.

Part of Regulus had been hoping Lupin would be irritating, obnoxious, even. That he'd do something, anything, to get under his skin. Everyone has some annoying tic. It's human. Evan cracks his knuckles constantly. Barty taps his wand against every surface. Pandora mutters to herself, so quiet that no one can follow. Dorcas is always jingling those bloody bracelets.

And Regulus, well, Regulus notices. He always notices. The little things most people ignore, the quiet patterns that say more than words ever could.

So he keeps glancing at Lupin, searching for it. Waiting for the habit, the fidget, the tell. But nothing. The boy is infuriatingly composed. He doesn't fidget, doesn't shift unnecessarily. He doesn't even breathe too loud.

And that, Regulus thinks, is somehow worse.

Because his company is sufferable. Which it shouldn't be. All of Sirius' friends are irritating. Difficult. Loud.

But this. This is easy.

Somehow, without saying much at all, they move through the castle with a quiet rhythm. A kind of unspoken understanding. They know where to go and what to check. The bathrooms. The empty classrooms. The usual hiding spots.

If it were Wilkes, Regulus would've spent the whole evening arguing. Wilkes never thinks ahead, doesn't listen, doesn't care. Patrolling with him would have been like dragging around dead flobberworm and trying to reason with it.

But Lupin? Lupin is…in sync with him. It's unnerving how seamless it is.

Remus Lupin is already handsome, objectively speaking, and now, apparently, he has to be sufferable, too? That's troll bogeys. Actually unfair.

Regulus had made peace a long time ago with the fact that Sirius surrounds himself with attractive people. Fine. Whatever. But at least they were all insufferable on the inside, where it counts. That's how the universe balances itself.

But then Lupin has the audacity to walk around with this calm demeanour and quiet competence, ruining it. Just... fine. Entirely, irritatingly fine.

It's starting to bug Regulus. First James Potter, now this.

Fucking James Potter and his half-naked body. Like Regulus needed, that image burned into his brain for the rest of eternity.

He hadn't even noticed until Potter pointed it out. He had been so riled up by rage of seeing Potter, of the boy interrupting him, that he hadn't paid attention to anything but the fact that he was there sniffing around where he bloody wasn't supposed to.

But then.

Muscles. Actual muscles. Not gross or showy, nothing excessive. Just lean, defined strength, the kind that came from Quidditch and years of stupidly perfect genetics. And a chest. A genuinely nice chest. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, golden skin still damp from sweat. Regulus had clocked the whole thing in two sodding seconds before he'd yanked his gaze away like he'd been burned.

And now he's been stuck with that image all day. It creeps in at the most inconvenient moments, uninvited, unwelcome, like a visual hex that someone should be punished for casting.

Regulus drags a hand down his face, resisting the urge to bang his head against the nearest stone wall.

He needs to be Obliviated.

Or his brain fried.

Either. Both. Whatever works fastest.

He glances at Lupin. He's good at Charms, isn't he? He could probably Obliviate Regulus with one flick of his wand. But that would mean telling him that he saw his best friend shirtless and now can't stop thinking about it because his brain is clearly broken.

Fucking hell.

Lupin glances back, and then they're locked in the most painfully awkward eye contact Regulus has ever experienced. He wants to punch a wall. Or vanish.

Why is this happening to him? Why is he interacting with Sirius' friends more than his own today? What did he do to deserve this?

Lupin, mercifully, says nothing. Just lifts an eyebrow like he knows something. Like he knows Regulus was thinking about James Potter's stupid bare chest.

Which is obviously ridiculous.

Lupin isn't a Legilimens. Or psychic. Right?

Regulus tears his gaze away, picks up the pace, and turns a corner. Then another. And another. Lupin trails behind him, never quite beside, just close enough to be annoying.

Regulus heads for the spiral staircase to the fifth floor, taking the steps two at a time. Just as he's about to reach the landing near Ravenclaw Tower, Lupin speaks.

"Do you smell that?" he mutters.

Regulus frowns. Smell what?

He steps onto the floor and keeps walking.

"I'm serious. You don't smell that?" Lupin repeats, tone sharper now.

Regulus sighs and turns to look at him, irritation simmering. Lupin's hand is around his wand, tense. What the hell is he on about? Regulus smells nothing except maybe the damp chill of a draft from an open corridor window.

Has it rained?

Definitely feels like it has.

And then he steps right into it; water on the stone floor, slick beneath his shoe.

He stops.

Ahead, the corridor is drowned in darkness. Every torch snuffed out. The passage to Ravenclaw Tower swallowed by something heavy and unnatural.

Regulus frowns. He can smell it now. That sharp, metallic tang hanging in the air.

Blood.

He draws his wand, mutters "Lumos," and the tip flares with light.

Regulus doesn't scare easily. Grimmauld Place saw to that. He's seen worse things than most could stomach. But still, his heart stutters, just slightly, when the light hits the wall ahead.

Blood. Slick and vivid, trailing down the stone, dripping slowly on the floor.

He didn't step in rainwater. He stepped in that.

Inconvenient.

Lupin curses behind him, and Regulus follows his gaze.

The blood has been dragged across the wall, not splattered but shaped ; letters , carefully carved and smeared.

Cleanse the castle.

Lupin takes a step forward, jaw clenched, wand gripped tight. He doesn't say anything; he just stares. And so does Regulus. The handwriting on the wall is disturbingly neat, as if someone had taken their time.

Then Lupin lifts his wand and points it at Regulus.

Regulus doesn't flinch. He just looks at him, bored. Lupin might be taller, sure, but that doesn't mean anything. Regulus could hex him faster than Lupin could even form a word. The beauty of nonverbal magic.

"Did you do this?" Lupin sneers.

Regulus almost laughs. He thought Lupin was supposed to be the smart one.

"You're fucking joking, right?" he says flatly.

"No."

Regulus rolls his eyes, crossing his arms, not even dignifying it with a response.

"It's always you lot," Lupin mutters through gritted teeth.

"That's a bit generalising," Regulus replies, voice dry.

"It's the truth."

Regulus shrugs. He's not wrong. It is always them; Avery, Wilkes, Mulciber Snape. Even Lestrange and Selwyn. That whole sorry lot, barely a brain cell between them, so desperate for attention. As if the Dark Lord cares about their bloody scribbles on Hogwarts walls. As if the Dark Lord will reward them for this.

Lupin doesn't lower his wand. Just keeps staring at Regulus like he expects something. A confession? An apology?

He should know better than to expect anything from him. Sirius has surely made that clear.

Regulus exhales slowly. This is a waste of time. He should be in the library. He should be in the Restricted Section. He should be anywhere but here, in this corridor, pretending to care.

But since Lupin seems to be waiting for him to say something. Fine.

"Well, sure," he says. "Someone was feeling poetic."

Lupin's nostrils flare. His chest rises sharply. For a moment, he looks like he might actually explode.

Then... he doesn't. He reins it in. Composes himself like it costs him something.

He doesn't say another word.

Just walks past Regulus, wand still drawn, off to report, no doubt.

Regulus doesn't watch him go. He just turns in the opposite direction and resumes his rounds like nothing happened. Like the blood on the wall wasn't still fresh. Like it hadn't said exactly what it did.

Chapter Text

James loves the sunshine, especially when it warms his cheeks during early morning lessons, but today, it feels intrusive. Too bright. Too sharp as it spills in through the room's tall windows, cutting across desks and floorboards in golden rays that make his tired eyes ache.

He didn't sleep last night.

Not after Remus returned from patrol and told them what had happened.

Cleanse the castle.

Those three words still churn in James's mind. They make him feel sick. Unsteady. Like he is no longer standing on solid ground.

They are not just hateful; they are targeted and intentional. Aimed at people James cares about. At people like Remus.

Remus had told them everything in that quiet, logical voice he used when trying to sound unaffected. Like if he kept his tone flat enough, it wouldn't crack. It wouldn't show how much it affected him.

He was on a perfect patrol when it happened. Of course, it had been Remus who had found those words on the wall. Well, Remus and Regulus, with whom he had been paired. Regulus, who hadn't cared. Of course, he hadn't. He'd just walked off and left Remus to deal with it alone.

James shouldn't be surprised. And yet he is. Maybe because some part of him still wants to believe there's good in everyone. But clearly, he should let go of that childhood fantasy.

Remus had also told them about McGonagall. How she'd stood there, frozen in place, staring at the wall as if the words had knocked the breath out of her. She had sent Remus straight to bed after that.

It had been a curse. The kind of thing that clings to stone long after the blood has dried. Even McGonagall couldn't remove it. Dumbledore had been able to get rid of it, but only in the morning when some Ravenclaws had already woken up and seen it on their way to breakfast, so now everyone in the castle knew what had happened.

James blinks, dragged back into the present by the buzz of voices around him. The classroom is humming with low chatter, all of it circling back to the same thing: what was written, who did it, and what it means. Though James has a pretty good idea already. Snape. Avery. Mulciber. Wilkes. Who else could work with that kind of dark magic?

James shifts his weight and looks around the classroom. The desks have all been pushed back against the walls, forming a wide ring around the room. An open space yawns in the centre, like they're meant to duel or demonstrate something. But there is no professor in sight yet.

They don't even know who it is.

Yesterday's lessons had been canceled, no professor had shown up. Word around the castle is that no one wants the job. But now that the seventh-years have been summoned, it seems they finally have someone.

James just hopes that whoever it is, they can teach them something useful.

Sirius lets out a sharp yawn and slouches against one of the desks, arms crossed, scowl firmly in place. He looks like he hasn't slept, and James knows he hasn't. None of them really did. They'd stayed up half the night talking in hushed voices, crammed into the dormitory like it was fifth year again. James had missed that, the comfort of all four of them in the same room, but not like this. He'd rather it had been about something stupid like setting Nifflers loose in the Great Hall. Something teenage and reckless, something that reminded them they were still kids.

But the real world doesn't wait. Not anymore. Not for them. What's out there outside the school walls doesn't wait for them to grow up.

They'd talked about it for hours. What it meant. What they could do. Because they had to do something. James and Sirius had been the loudest, insistent that they needed to help. That they could help from inside the castle. For the Order, or for Dumbledore, or for the students who didn't even know they were in danger.

Remus had been quieter. He thinks he is not welcome to the Order, which James thinks is ridiculous. Remus speaks like he's not worthy of fighting for what's right. James' heart aches at that every time his friend pushes himself down because of who he is. Remus is smarter than most people they know. Braver, too. And his heart is solid gold.

And Pete, well, Pete doesn't believe in himself enough. He just sat there, mostly listening, chewing his lip, and twisting his fingers in his blanket. James hates that, too. Hates the way Peter always seems to shrink in moments like these, like he doesn't believe he belongs. But he does. Merlin, he does. Peter is better than anyone gave him credit for, including himself.

Another reason why Sirius is in a foul mood is, of course, Regulus.

Not even the fact that Regulus didn't do anything, but the fact that Remus had been stuck on rounds with him. Although now that James thinks about it, Sirius probably isn't frustrated because of Regulus. Not really. He's frustrated because of Remus. About the way he's gone quiet this morning, barely meeting Sirius' eyes. James is pretty sure they talked after everyone had finally gone to bed, talked, or, more likely, bickered, the way they always do. It probably started with Sirius saying something stupid out loud. That's usually how it goes.

James could press. Ask what happened, dig it out into the light like he usually does, but he's tired, and it's barely nine in the morning, and technically, they should be having a lesson.

"Why are they holding us hostage here if no one's even going to show up?" Sirius mutters, swinging his legs up onto the desk.

James huffs a tired laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. "Maybe the professor took a look at us from the doorway and quit before he even started."

"Wouldn't blame them," Remus murmurs from where he's leaning on the wall, arms crossed. "Wouldn't want to teach us either."

"Speak for yourself," Sirius says. "I'm charming. Absolute delight to teach."

James grins at that. Remus doesn't, which definitely means something is going on between the two. Sirius notices this, of course. His whole body seems to tense. He sits up straighter, attention fixed entirely on Remus, who won't even look his way. He's staring at the open doorway instead, like he's willing the lesson to start just so he won't have to be here.

Sirius shifts in his seat. James watches him, then glances at Peter, who looks just as wrecked from lack of sleep. Peter rubs a hand down his face, sighs, and turns to Sirius.

"Okay," Peter says flatly. "What did you do?"

Sirius blinks. "Me? Why do you think I did something?"

Peter gestures vaguely in his direction. "Because you're looking at Remus with those big, wide, tragic Mooncalf eyes. Which means you said something stupid, and he's going to sulk about it all day. And I, personally, would like to avoid another emotionally charged day of passive-aggressive silence, because I'm exhausted. We didn't sleep. So can we just have it out now and move on?"

James raises an eyebrow, impressed with Peter's bluntness.

"I don't sulk," Remus mutters.

Peter and James both turn toward him in unison.

"What?" Remus frowns.

"I love you, mate," James says with a grin, "which is why I think you deserve the truth: you are the king of sulking."

"Yeah," Peter agrees, shrugging. "Nobody broods quite like you. It's an art form." Then he continues, waving a hand between Sirius and Remus. "So what’s going on here?"

Remus presses his lips together. Sirius is still watching him, expression unreadable, until he finally throws up his hands in frustration.

"I just said," he blurts, "that maybe next time Remus is on patrol, we should keep an eye on him through the map."

Remus flinches like he's been slapped.

James sighs. Yeah, he should've guessed. Of course, Sirius was thinking about Remus and Remus only. What could have happened.

"I don't need a bloody babysitter," Remus says, tone sharp.

"It's not babysitting!" Sirius shoots back, voice strained. "It's just... look, there are people in this school who might want to hurt you. And one of them was on patrol with you. I just--"

He falters, gaze locked on Remus like nothing else in the room matters. "I just want to make sure you're safe."

"I can protect myself, you know. I'm not that weak." Remus says, quieter.

There it is. James sees it. The thing that had been written all over Remus' face last night. He thinks he's less than them.

James knows Sirius doesn't mean it like that; he is just so bad at putting his thoughts into words. Sirius doesn't think Remus is weak. Sirius worships the bloody ground Remus walks on. James doesn't understand how Remus doesn't see it; it's right there. Offered on a silver platter right in front of him.

"I know you can protect yourself," Sirius says.

"Then you should trust me to take care of myself," Remus replies.

"I do trust you. I don't trust them. Him. You were alone with him."

Remus rolls his eyes. "Nothing happened. He didn't even do it."

"Oh, brilliant. Round of applause for the bare fucking minimum," Sirius snaps, too loud now.

Heads turn, and James catches Lily, Mary and Marlene glancing over. He moves quickly, stepping between Remus and Sirius and placing a steadying hand on Sirius' shoulder. "Okay. Let's sort this out later," he mutters, guiding him back a few steps. "People are listening."

Remus looks genuinely startled at that, like he'd forgotten they weren't alone.

Then, as if on cue to draw the attention away from them, the door slams shut with a sudden bang. A hush spreads over the class as footsteps echo through the now-quiet room.

James turns his head just in time to see the new professor stride across the room, his dark purple cloak billowing behind him like a torn velvet curtain ripped from the window of some forgotten castle. Something silver glints at his throat, half-hidden beneath the crisp white collar of his shirt. A locket, most likely. He comes to a stop at the centre of the room, his boot heel striking the floor with a sharp click as his gaze sweeps the room, landing on a few students sitting on desks.

"Up."

The command is clipped. Firm. A few students hesitate. The professor doesn't wait; he strides forward and flicks his wand toward a Ravenclaw still seated on a desk. The chair beneath them vanishes, and they hit the ground with a yelp.

A ripple of shock spreads through the room. Sirius lets out a low whistle.

"Wands out." The professor commands, and this time, everyone obeys immediately.

"Caradoc Dearborn." The name appears on the chalkboard behind him as he speaks, scrawled in sharp, deliberate strokes. He doesn't offer any further pleasantries, nor does he seem interested in wasting time on formalities.

"You lot have spent the past six years reading about Defence Against the Dark Arts." Dearborn continues. "Reading." He says the word like it offends him, his lips curling around it in distaste. "Memorising spells, writing essays, filling your heads with theories. You think any of that will save you?"

His voice is low and steady, yet it carries easily through the room. The way he holds himself demands attention; broad shoulders squared, arms loosely crossed over his chest. His dark hair is pulled back, but not neatly; stray strands have slipped free.

And then, his wand flicks before anyone can react. A shockwave of nonverbal magic pulses through the room. James can feel it in his bones. Every student is thrown backwards. Nothing painful, just enough to disrupt, disorient, and put them off balance. Some hit desks, others stumble over their own feet. James barely manages to keep himself upright, catching the edge of a desk before he can fall.

The room is dead silent.

Dearborn smirks. "You hesitate. You lose."

Someone sputters indignantly. "That wasn't fair!"

"Fair?" Dearborn snorts. "You think the Dark Arts are fair? You think your opponent will bow and wait for you to remember the proper incantation?"

"Well... Actually, professor, in duelling, the combatants face each other and bow as a sign of respect before attempting to disarm." One of the Ravenclaws says.

Dearborn tilts his head, unimpressed. "And if we're at war, Mr…?"

"Ainsworth," the boy supplies stiffly. James glances at him. Elliot Ainsworth. He is always the one speaking in class whenever they share lessons with Ravenclaws.

Dearborn hums. "Tell me, Ainsworth, if we are at war, do you think your opponent will wait to bow? Wait for you to raise your wand, get into position, be ready to fire?"

"Well… no, but--"

Dearborn turns away before he can finish, already dismissing him. "In war, there are no rules. You don't win by showing respect. You don't win by knowing what the book says. You win by surviving."

"But, professor," One of the girls across the room raises their hand." You are talking like… um…"

"Like we are at war?" Dearborn finishes unfaced." That is because we are at one. It is time for everyone to open their eyes and see what is happening around you. You won't be safe at Hogwarts. You won't be safe at home."

"Dumbledore says we're safe at Hogwarts," Mary notes quietly, clearly more to herself and the girls around her, but Dearborn catches it.

"After what happened last night, do you truly think that you are safe at Hogwarts?" Dearborn arches an eyebrow, "It is inevitable that what is happening outside of these castle walls will slowly worm its way in. Those words are just a start." Then, without ceremony, he shrugs off his purple cloak and tosses it onto the nearest desk. His wand disappears into his back pocket as he starts rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt, revealing inked skin beneath. James catches the subtle shift in Sirius beside him, the way his posture straightens slightly, intrigued.

"Dumbledore is the most powerful wizard alive," Dearborn acknowledges with a slight nod. "But even he can't protect you if the enemy is more ruthless, willing to wield magic darker than you can imagine."

James feels slightly mesmerised by this man. There's something about the way he speaks, the certainty in his voice. He doesn't sound like someone who has just studied war. He sounds like he knows what it's like because he has been there. He sounds like someone James could really learn from.

"Are you suggesting we will fight against dark magic, Professor?" One of the Ravenclaw girls asks. "But isn't that illegal?"

"As I just said," Dearborn says, "in war, there are no rules." His gaze sweeps over the class. "And when death comes knocking on your dormitory door, do you really think a rulebook is going to save you?"

"Yeah, but Hogwarts is protected by spells," The girl continues. "We're safe."

Dearborn actually laughs at that. It's a surprisingly pleasant sound. "Safe?" He shakes his head. "Tell me, why do you think no one wanted this job?" He asks. "Everyone knows what's coming. Everyone knows the responsibility. Everyone knows the risk they take the moment they step into this classroom. No one is safe anymore. No one. And my job isn't to coddle you with false safety or reassurance. My job is to teach you how to survive when someone comes for your blood."

Dearborn clasps his hands behind his back, scanning the room. "So. Who here thinks they can cast a shield faster than I can disarm them? Hm?"

Silence.

"Cowards," Dearborn says, amused.

The word lands like a match in dry tinder. Sirius moves before he even realises he's doing it, weight shifting slightly as if preparing to step forward. Dearborn notices immediately and nods at him .

Sirius smiles charmingly. "Professor," he says, lazily spinning his wand between his fingers, "if you wanted to duel me, you could've just asked."

This earns a few chuckles around the room. James shakes his head. He has a feeling this is not going to go Sirius' way though he is a fucking brilliant wizard.

Dearborn grins back, as if he were waiting for this. "Alright, Black. Let's see how fast you are."

"How do you know my--"

Sirius doesn't even get to finish the sentence.

Dearborn moves.

No incantation, no warning, just a flick of his wrist, and Sirius' wand is ripped from his hand. It skids across the floor, stopping at Peter's feet.

James exhales sharply through his nose. That was fast. He could definitely learn a thing or two from this man.

Sirius tilts his head, "You didn't even give me a chance."

"Exactly," Dearborn corrects. "That was a fight. And you lost."

Another beat of silence. No one knows what to say to that. Not even Sirius.

Dearborn turns back to the class. "From now on, this isn't a theory lesson. You will learn by doing. Every spell I teach you, you will practice under pressure. Because the Dark Arts don't wait for you to be ready. They don't wait for you to pass your exams. They will come for you, whether you like it or not."

"James?"

"Prongs?"

"James Fleamont Potter?"

"Oi, hornhead?"

"Yes, dear?" James answers, looks up, and Sirius tilts his head, a grin spreading across his lips.

"What are you doing?" He asks.

"Shh!" Someone hisses across the table.

Sirius whips his head around, sticks out his tongue and the girl giggles. Then he spins back to James, draping himself dramatically across the table.

James shakes his head, amused. "I'm doing exactly what I was doing five minutes ago when you asked."

Sirius leans over and taps his wand against James' book. The pressure forces the pages to part slightly, revealing the hidden map James has been working on.

James has added a glamour to the book to hide the map between the book pages. So, to any by-passers, it just looks like his Charms book.

"Why is it taking you a million years to add Revelio for Polyjuice potion?" Sirius whines.

"Because Madam Pince keeps circling like a bloody augurey," James mutters back.

"Why are we even doing this here?" Sirius demands, exasperated. He's practically vibrating with pent-up energy.

"Because," James says patiently, "we're waiting for Remus and Peter to finish whatever they're doing."

They're in the library study area, sitting at one of the long oak tables. Remus and Peter are buried somewhere between the stacks, diligently working on homework that James and Sirius are supposed to be doing, too.

But James figures he can deal with that in the morning. Or copy from Remus, like he always does. Someone has to work on the map, anyway. It's a masterpiece. Legacy. It needs to be flawless.

Last night, they'd agreed to add unveiling spells to catch Polyjuice disguises and animagi, just in case. Not that anyone else at Hogwarts is secretly an animagus like them. But you never know. They want the map to unveil any spells that can be used to hide or alter someone's identity.

Sirius shifts again, poking James' arm with the tip of his wand.

"Oi, antlerbrain?"

James doesn't look up.

"Prongsy?"

"My Sweet Prongsy-Wongsy?"

"Get help," James says, deadpan.

"Horny?"

James finally looks up. "You're not well."

Sirius winks at him. "That's what my mother said."

James shuts his book, hiding the map inside and reaches across the table for Sirius's hand, dramatically clasping it between both of his own. "You have my undivided attention," he whispers, "Time for your daily Prongs Hour. What is it that weighs so heavily upon your heart, my sweet conepie?"

Sirius tries to fight it; he really does, but a grin breaks across his face anyway. He straightens up, attempts a more serious expression, and fails entirely.

"Conepie?" he echoes, amused.

"Horny?" James shoots back.

"You love it." Sirius winks.

"Obviously," James says. "Okay, conepie, sharing is caring, what's up?"

"I'm bored." Sirius shrugs.

James arches an eyebrow, "And?"

Sirius is quiet for a moment, and he stares at the back of James' hand like it belongs to someone else. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, frowning slightly.

Finally, he looks up at James and says, "Do you think Moony's still angry at me?"

And there it is.

James almost smiles but thinks better of it. Instead, he tilts his head. "He's not angry at you."

Remus is never angry at Sirius.

Frustrated, yes.

Annoyed, absolutely.

But never truly angry.

"He just needs some time to get over what happened," James says.

"I was just thinking about his safety," Sirius mutters, voice low and wounded. He sounds so sad that something twists deep in James' chest.

He can't take sad Sirius. Physically can't. He's seen too much of it; Sirius, sad, battered and bruised, turning up at their door one after another Grimmauld Place disaster.

James still remembers the way his mum would gently patch him up, murmuring curses under her breath. He remembers every single time. He will never forget. Not the sight of his best friend fighting for his life, bleeding on his carpet.

And James, who thought he was all sunshine and daisies, had felt something inside him break for the first time.

Before Sirius, he hadn't known there was any real darkness in him.

Now, he knows better.

It's the kind of darkness that made him want to march straight to Grimmauld Place and burn it to the ground. Brick by brick, the whole thing and everyone inside of it.

"I know you were, Pads," James says softly. "And Moony knows it too. He'll come around, don't worry."

Sirius nods, and then a voice pipes up behind James:

"Potter and Black finally made it official?"

It's Mary Macdonald, grinning wickedly. She makes a heart shape with her hands. "God, I'm so here for this."

Sirius immediately smirks, letting go of James' arm with exaggerated reluctance as he leans lazily back in his chair.

"Jealous, Macdonald?" he drawls.

Mary gasps, placing a hand dramatically over her heart. Her big hoop earrings sway with the motion.

"Devastated, Black. I thought we had something real."

Sirius is all charm and flirt. "Hey, who says I'm a one-woman man?"

Mary snorts, tossing her hair. "Please. Dream bigger."

James laughs under his breath as Sirius waggles his eyebrows, and Mary waves a dismissive hand in his face.

"Seriously, dream on, Black."

"What's he dreaming about now?" Remus's voice floats in as he appears beside her, arms full of books.

Mary turns to him with a sweet, angelic smile. "Your boy was just confessing his undying love, Lupin," she says brightly. "It was very moving."

"He's not my boy," Remus says dryly, and James detects the bite in his tone. "All yours, Macdonald."

Mary laughs, placing a hand lightly on Remus' shoulder as she leans in to whisper something in his ear. James doesn't catch it, but whatever it is, it makes Remus fumble his stack of books, nearly dropping them.

Mary chuckles more as she walks off.

Sirius sits up straighter, eyes narrowing in suspicion as he watches Remus awkwardly gather himself.

James hides his grin. He knows Sirius well enough to recognise that look.

"What did she say?" Sirius asks.

Remus just shakes his head. He looks flustered and more confused. He sets his books down on the table and stretches his back.

"How's the map coming along?" he asks James.

Sirius gets up and strolls over, looming behind them both. Remus pointedly ignores him and waits for James' answer.

"I'm still working on the animagus stuff, but it should be fine since there's no one else at the castle who's--"

"Don't." Remus cuts him off. "You can't talk about it in public. We agreed."

They did agree on it. It was one of the million promises Remus made them swear back in the fifth year.

"My point is, we are not in a rush with that. I've got the Polyjuice stuff covered, though." He flips the book open again, pulling out his wand to tap the parchment and whisper Mischief Managed.

But then his eyes catch something. Small swirls of ink form a name in the prefects' bathrooms. Regulus Black.

James can't help it. He is a curious boy. Has always been. His gaze just wandered there against his will.

But there it floats, exactly where he had been yesterday. Regulus Black.

Regulus has to be up to something. Surely, he was doing something in the bathrooms when he got there yesterday. He saw a cauldron. He is sure of it now. But what could he be up to? Nothing good, for sure. James feels the urge to investigate. It's his duty as a Gryffindor.

He seals the map with a tap of his wand and springs to his feet.

"Where is Pete?" He asks Remus.

"He's off talking to some Puffs about his new plant. He said we could go without him," Remus answers.

"Alright, then--"

James doesn't even get to finish before Sirius interrupts:

"Moony, what did Mary say to you?"

"Nothing important," Remus responds and picks up the stack of books from the table. Sirius eyes him for half a second before he starts to take books from Remus's stack to help him carry; he always helps Remus, who brings more books back to their dormitory than he can read. His bed is surrounded by organised stacks of books, magic and muggle. 

Remus allows it like he always does.

James knows why. Remus's back aches often, though he never complains. They'd just heard from Pomfrey that he'd pulled a muscle mid-transition, being neither fully human nor fully wolf, and she couldn't quite heal it.

"You were flustered." Sirius points out.

Remus glares at him, "I wasn't."

James shakes his head. 

"Yes, you were."

"No. I wasn't."

"You were."

"Drop it, Sirius."

James looks up at the darkening sky through the high window they're passing. Sends a silent prayer to Merlin. He has to listen. Has to save James from this. He can only take so much bickering from his friends in one day, and this is a subject he can't touch. He has to let them have it out on their own. He has to let Sirius figure it out on his own. He can't intervene. 

Remus has been there for years. He hasn't told James, but James knows.

"Yes, you were!" Sirius repeats, "When you get flustered, your cheeks go all pink, like this really pretty soft rose colour or something."

James turns back just in time to catch it happening; the way Remus' whole face shifts, like he’s just taken a hit to the stomach. He's staring at Sirius, stunned, mouth slightly open.

Sirius, meanwhile, is completely unfazed, like he didn't just casually call Remus pretty to his face. "So yeah, that's how I know you were flustered."

Remus blinks. Opens his mouth. Clutches his books tighter to his chest like they might ground him to the floor.

And James thinks if he should just turn around and leave, there and then, because this feels like a private moment he shouldn't witness.

Sirius is a few steps ahead when he realises Remus has stopped walking, so he turns around and tilts his head, "What?"

Remus gathers himself, rolls his shoulders and shrugs, "Nothing." He's walking again, passing Sirius when he says, "She just said she'd pick me over you any day."

James knows that's a lie. Remus is deflecting; he can see it in the grin he pasted on his face. Sirius sees it too, but he takes this. Clearly, just wants everything to be okay between them.

"Well, obviously," Sirius replies. "If I had to choose between me and you, I'd pick you, too."

Remus huffs a soft laugh under his breath, shifting the books in his arms.

And then, within a minute, everything is back to normal, and Remus is talking about the books he got from the library because Sirius asked. He knows Remus loves to talk about them , loves when someone wants to listen. And Sirius listens, always. 

James only half-follows their conversation as they pass the staircase leading to the fifth floor and the prefects' bathrooms. 

James stops. He has this sudden urge to go up those stairs. 

"Guys, I'm gonna go…" James says, gesturing vaguely toward the stairs.

Sirius and Remus glance back at him. Sirius nods, but his eyes flick right back to Remus as if he's something he's afraid to lose if he looks away too long. They resume their conversation, and James is left alone in the corridor, and then he is jogging up the stairs. He doesn't know why he's running; it's not like he's in a hurry.

It's just Regulus Black.

Regulus Black, who pressed his wand against James' throat like a silent promise that rearranged something in James' brain for a second.

But only for a second.

It was a momentary lapse.

He's over it. He's fine.

He's definitely not thinking about it anymore.

He just wants to see what Regulus is up to.

It's his responsibility.

Gryffindor duty.

When James reaches the door to the prefects' bathroom, he's slightly out of breath. He pauses, taking a deep, steadying breath, then whispers the password and gently pushes the door open.

The bathroom is dark. The evening has settled over the room, and the only light seeps in through the stained-glass window of the mermaid, casting her in a soft, ethereal glow. She's brushing her hair absentmindedly with her fingers, seemingly unaware of James.

The room is quiet. Bubbles drift lazily through the air, suspended in silence. Even the bathwater isn't running, as if the room knows that the person who entered has no intention of bathing and refuses to waste its warmth.

James steps further inside, straining to hear something... anything, but there's nothing. It feels like he's alone. And yet, he can't be. He saw Regulus' name on the map.

He walks over to the stalls. Each door hangs slightly ajar, revealing emptiness. He hesitates before pushing open the stall he found Regulus in yesterday, but it's as empty as the rest.

James exhales sharply in frustration and pulls the map from his pocket, unfolding it with quick fingers. Maybe Regulus slipped out in the past ten minutes.

But no.

His eyes scan the parchment, landing on the prefects' bathroom, and there it is. Regulus Black. Still here. Still inside.

But James doesn't see him. He's not in the room. According to the map, it looks like he's… inside the walls.

But there aren't any secret passages here.

Right?

James turns back to the map. For a moment, he considers closing it. Letting it go. Fine. It's just Regulus. It's not his responsibility to figure out whatever he's skulking around doing.

But that's not who James is. Nope.

And the map knows it.

It knows him. He was one of the four who breathed life into it, after all.

Regulus' name flickers faintly. Then, a trail of tiny, dotted lines appears beneath it, like footprints. They flicker in and out, weaving along the edges of the prefects' bathroom. Then they stop. Right at one of the walls.

James follows their direction. His gaze lifts.

The wall where the stained-glass mermaid sits.

That can't be right. It's a window. It can't possibly be hiding a passage.

But the mermaid isn't brushing her hair anymore.

She's looking at him. Almost expectantly.

James glances at the map again. The dotted lines are still hovering, flickering at the same spot on the wall. His gut twists. It has to be the entrance.

His eyes shift to the enormous bath between him and the window. Convenient, really. Whoever built that passage made sure no one would even think to look there; it's obscured by the biggest distraction in the room.

He moves toward it, stepping onto the stone stairs that descend into the tub. But instead of climbing in, he shifts his weight onto the slick stone railing, carefully balancing. It's narrow. Slippery from lingering water.

But James Potter has played Quidditch in hail and sideways rain. Balancing is second nature.

In no time, he reaches the height of the mermaid and steps carefully onto the narrow stone ledge in front of her. Up close, she watches him with a small, wicked smile.

James crosses his arms. "So you are hiding a passage, huh?"

The mermaid doesn't nod. Doesn't shake her head. She just keeps watching him.

"Can you open it for me?" he asks.

No response.

"Please?" he adds, offering his most charming smile.

The mermaid rolls her eyes and lifts a hand. For a moment, James thinks she's going to open the way.

But no. She just examines her nails like she's bored.

"Come on, can't you at least tell me what I'm supposed to do?" James says, eyeing the stained glass window suspiciously.

He still isn't convinced. It's a window. He can see the dark evening sky behind it. Unless, of course, it's all an illusion.

"At least give me a hint?" James continues. "Blink twice if I need a password?"

Nothing.

"Blink three times if I'm supposed to press a specific bit of glass to open the door?"

Still nothing.

James sighs and drags a hand through his hair. "Brush your hair if I need to use a charm--"

He doesn't get to finish.

The door to the prefects' bathroom swings open with a sharp creak.

"James Potter?"

He nearly loses his balance on the railing. He turns to find a very unimpressed Ravenclaw girl standing at the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

"Oh, hey!" James flashes a grin and waves as if he always hangs out here with the mermaid. "How are you this fine evening, Vance?"

"You're not a prefect. You're not Quidditch captain. You have no reason to be in here," Vance snaps.

"Ouch," James winces theatrically. "No need to remind me of that tragedy."

She's unfazed. "Get down. Leave the poor mermaid alone. And get out of here. Twenty points from Gryffindor. Ten for breaking into the Prefects' bathroom and ten for climbing the railing. You do realise you could fall and crack your head open, right?"

James sighs again, defeated. "You wound me, Vance. Truly."

"I think you'll survive," she says dryly, rolling her eyes as she gestures toward the door.

He throws one last glance over his shoulder at the mermaid.

She's watching him again with that same small, knowing smile. Like she expects him to return.

And she's not wrong.

Because he will be back.

Chapter Text

The air in the passageway is damp. Usually, it doesn't bother Regulus. He kind of likes it; the cold, the rhythmic drip of water from the pipes. But today, the dampness clings to his skin like a layer he can't shrug off, suffocating him. He tilts his head back against the cold stone wall and takes a moment to breathe.

He has been writing in his notebook for hours. Surely it's bordering on obsession by now, but he's copying everything with such precise control. Each letter is small and neat; as if he keeps his handwriting clean, it somehow gives him control over what he's doing.

His wand is lit on the floor; its flickering light dances on the narrow walls. The space is barely wide enough to sit in, let alone breathe. And for the past hour, breathing has become… difficult. He knows the passageway isn't meant for lingering. But it's his. No one else knows about it. Usually, he finds comfort in the dark, in the perfect silence that lives here. Not even the castle's ghosts seem to pass through.

Regulus looks down at his notebook that's resting against his knees. His hand had slipped as he was finishing the last sentence, smudging the ink. Little mistake, imperfection, a thing that scratches his brain the wrong way. He flicks his wand; the blot disappears. He glances at the open book beside him, rereading the sentence:

"Veilvine blooms only beneath the full moon, where the earth has tasted blood."

His eyes scan the words again, and then his heart flutters again. There is an unnatural stutter just beneath his ribs, followed by the creeping tightness that makes his chest feel too small. He presses his palm flat against it, willing the feeling to pass, but it only worsens the longer he stares at the book propped open in front of him.

You're fine.

You're in control.

But it does nothing.

Regulus doesn't understand it. There's no logical reason for this reaction. The passage is quiet. No one knows he's here. He got what he came for. The book that contains everything he needs: every toxic plant, every obscure brewing method, every ingredient that could be repurposed for what he's planning.

It should make him feel powerful. Prepared. In control.

Instead, the longer he stares at the Veilvine entry, the more the walls feel like they're closing in. It's like his heartbeat is trying to outrun something he can't see.

Regulus flicks his wand, and the book snaps shut with more force than necessary. He stands, brushing dust from his trousers in swift, sharp movements. His eyes linger on the book. He could leave it, and no one would ever find it. No one will even realise it's missing; he made sure of that when he swapped it last night in the Restricted Section. It had been easy, like he knew it would be. Dumbledore's protection charms might be clever, but even clever things can be broken by students who've been trained to.

But Regulus has learned the art of leaving no trace behind years ago, so he cloaks the book in a Disillusionment Charm with a quick flick of his wand. Just in case.

Once it's hidden, he slips back through the mermaid portrait. She doesn't stir this time, either asleep or pretending to be. The bathroom is still and silent, echoing faintly as his footsteps cross the tiles. Then he's back out into the corridor, shadows long and stretching under the faint blue light of early morning.

The castle is quiet. Regulus checks his pocket watch. Just before six. Plenty of time.

When he reaches the Potions classroom, the heavy door creaks open with familiar ease. Slughorn lets him use the space whenever he wants, no questions asked. It's not personal. Slughorn would extend the same favour to any student with a famous surname and influential parents.

Regulus doesn't take it as a compliment. But he uses it.

The classroom is dim, steeped in the quiet hush of early morning. Long rows of blackened tables glisten faintly with a film of lingering condensation , the scent of crushed herbs and sulfur still heavy in the damp air.

He wrenches open the supply cupboard first. Glass jars in mismatched shapes line the wooden shelves; some are filled with cloudy liquid, others pulsing with faint bioluminescence. Some are stuffed with brittle leaves, curled and silvered with age, while others contain small creatures suspended in thick, amber preservatives, their eyes dulled by time.

Regulus scans each label for Veilvine, even though he already knows it isn't there. He knows everything Slughorn keeps in this classroom. Veilvine isn't among the standard supplies. It's too rare, too temperamental, too easily misused. Too dangerous. Still, he checks, just in case.

Of course, it's not there.

It was never going to be that easy.

He exhales through his nose and starts gathering the ingredients he can find. Ingredients he needs today. Carefully, he selects each vial, weighing each root, as though control over the process might tether the restlessness still scratching under his skin.

His usual workstation is located in the corner of the room, a worn, pitted table pressed against the stone wall, marked with years of scorched wood and acid stains. He sets the ingredients down and then pulls his notebook from his bag. He flicks to the recipe he modified last year. This time, it will work. He had the whole summer to perfect it. This time, there will be no steam coming from the ears. No noise. No kettle-whistling ears mid-class.

Just silence.

Just stillness.

Just a calm, steady heartbeat.

He would have mastered this days ago if Potter hadn't shattered his focus in the perfect bathrooms.

He lights the burner beneath his cauldron with a flick of his wand. The quiet whoosh of flame is the only sound in the classroom, save for the faint trickle of water from one of the sinks in the corner.

With a roll of his wrist, his dagger drops into his palm from the seam of his sleeve. It's a quiet, clean motion he's practised. It took him years to master without cutting himself, but now it's his secret little weapon no one knows to expect. The dagger is small and sharp; probably a kind of thing anyone would expect him to have, which is why it's perfect. He's had it since he was fiv e. That's when he learned that there are other ways to cause pain. Not just with magic.

He slices the root on the chopping board to reduce its sedative effects. He could crush it, but slicing feels cleaner... more exact. More controlled.

He works swiftly, the sharp thunk of metal against wood pounding like a pendulum in his ears. The scent of crushed mint and ginger is already rising from the cauldron, and the steam curls around his collar as he adds the sliced valerian.

Regulus sets the dagger aside and reaches for the powdered moonstone next. He pinches it in carefully, watching the potion shift from pale green to a soft, cloudy silver. He stirs four times, clockwise, and then he has to wait.

This should mean silence and peace, but no. Barty barges into the classroom as if on cue, knowing Regulus has time to be bothered.

"I knew you'd be here!" He exclaims as he strides over, stopping by Regulus' cauldron, peeking in and crinkling his nose. "You brewing your fancy little cloud-juice again?"

Regulus just stares at his friend for a moment, then nods swiftly.

"Oh, delicious. Can I have some?" Barty's eyes light up with excitement. Regulus made the mistake of giving him a dose last year after the Christmas holidays. He was all worked up from being back home with his father and had found Regulus brewing it because , well, he'd also been all worked up from being back home.

"No," Regulus says dryly.

"Oh, come on, Reg!" Barty whines, placing his hands on the table and leaning closer to the cauldron and Regulus, "It makes my brain all funny and fussy. It's like pot but better because it doesn't smell."

Regulus ignores everything Barty just said and asks, "Why are you here?" while he adjusts the flame, waits until the bubbling slows to a quiet simmer, then reaches for the vial of ashwinder egg essence.

Just two drops. No more.

"I came to tell you about my delicious hour in the broom cupboard last night. With Carlow."

Regulus doesn't look up, just watches the potion darken as it takes in the essence.

"That fifth year?"

"Yeah. And?"

Regulus arches an eyebrow.

"Have you seen her boobs?"

"I can't say that I have," Regulus murmurs, still watching for the telltale shimmer that would mean the potion is binding properly.

"Well, you should. Boobs are incredible. They are soft and squishy. And nipples... Oh nipples--"

Regulus finally looks up, deadpan. "It's not even seven in the morning. Why the fuck are we talking about Carlow's nipples?"

"Because I sucked them," Barty says, he's got this very Barty-like grin on. It's wicked and chaotic. "And they were delicious."

Regulus contemplates throwing the dagger at him just to shut him up. But that's not what you do to your friends.

Apparently.

And because the universe clearly hates Regulus this morning, Dorcas chooses that moment to stride in and join them.

"Oi, what are you doing here this early?"

"What do you think we're doing in the Potions classroom, Dora?" Barty grins.

"I know what Reg's doing here," she shoots back, crossing the room to stand beside him and peer into the cauldron. "But you? That's a mystery."

"Well, my dear friend," Barty says, throwing an arm around her shoulders with theatrical flair, "we are brewing cloud-juice."

"We?" Regulus says dryly.

Barty winks. "Reg is. I'm here for moral support, obviously."

Dorcas squints into the cauldron again. Her brows pull together. "I thought you stopped using that stuff after your ears started whistling in McGonagall's class?"

"I've modified it," Regulus replies, more curtly than intended. He hadn't meant for anyone to know about it, just Barty, but there'd been no way to keep it quiet after the Transfiguration incident. Not with his friends howling like werewolves for an hour straight.

"Hm..." Dorcas says, clearly not happy with the answer. She hops up to sit on the desk across from Regulus, and Barty flops beside her.

"Actually, I was telling Reg about Carlow's nipples," Barty informs her.

Dorcas's head snaps toward him so fast it looks like it might fly off. "You made out with Carlow last night? How?"

"What do you mean, how?" Barty frowns. "I put my lips against hers. That's how."

She rolls her eyes. "I mean, how did you trick her into it? She's, like, Slytherin royalty."

"So am I," Barty gasps.

"Ha!" Dorcas laughs loud and sharp. "Sure, Barty. Did you spike her juice or something?"

"I did not," he says indignantly. " She liked my new tattoo!"

He's already yanking down his collar to show them, but Dorcas lifts a hand to stop him, still laughing.

"Okay, okay. I believe you. No need to flash me again."

"Girls dig tats," Barty says. "You should take that under consideration."

Regulus stares at his cauldron, briefly considering slamming his forehead against the table. Maybe it would knock him out for ten minutes. Ten minutes is all he needs, then the potion is ready and he can leave. Ten minutes.

"Girls want more than that." Dorcas points out.

"Well, Carlow's nipples were telling a different story," Barty winks.

Seriously, slamming his head against the table would surely hurt less than listening to this conversation.

"Don't even," Dorcas warns, glaring. "I can't believe you tricked her into--"

"Jealous, Meadowes?" Barty interrupts.

"Yes," Dorcas says. "She's gorgeous. I'm scared to even speak to her."

Barty grins, all smug. "Well, I can confirm those boobs were squishier than jelly shots."

"Stop talking about her like that," Dorcas snaps, flicking her braids over her shoulder and sitting taller. "She's a girl, a woman to be, and those are her breasts, not your fucking punchline. Try respecting that."

"Oh, don't worry. I was very respectful to the nipples. They agreed with my fingers quite happily, actually." Barty says,

"Can I borrow your dagger for a second?" Dorcas looks at Regulus. "I promise I'll be quick."

"They are just boobs," Barty smirks, swinging his legs in the air. "You should know."

Now Dorcas looks like she's considering banging her head against the table, too.

She'd told them last spring. Said it plainly, in the middle of one of Barty's never-ending theories about who fancied who: "I only like girls, actually. Sorry to disappoint." She'd said it while peeling an orange, like it wasn't brave as hell to say that out loud in this castle, in front of a bunch of purebloods who could've made it a very different conversation.

Regulus had respected her for it. Still does. She's braver than any of them.

And they'd never talked about it again. Barty just stopped teasing her about boys and started teasing her about girls instead. Like the subject never changed.

It wasn't perfect. But it was something.

"Well, actually," Dorcas says, tone half-shy, half-proud, "I'd like you both to know that I have a crush now. And one day... one day, I'll find the courage to talk to her."

Barty lets out a dramatic whistle. "Hold on a second. You? A crush? Who is it?"

Even Regulus lifts his eyes from the cauldron. He can't help but be curious. Dorcas has never told them she liked any girl in particular before.

Dorcas sticks out her tongue. "I'm not telling. A) she's way out of my league, and B) neither of you would approve... except for Pandora because she's perfect, and I love her more than I love either of you clowns."

Barty gasps and clutches his chest like she's wounded him. "Who is it?" he insists, leaping up onto the desk. "It's a teacher, isn't it? It's the new DADA professor, right? Wait... It can't be him, obviously, though he is..." His voice falters, and Regulus gives him a look. They're both clearly thinking the same thing: Dearborn is objectively hot. Tattoos, piercings, leather boots; he's a walking distraction.

But Barty isn't there yet. To admit that out loud. Not with that kind of self-discovery.

He clears his throat. "So what, McGonagall? A bit mature for your taste, don't you think?"

Dorcas cackles. "Are you fucking serious? It's not a teacher, you idiot!"

"Then who is it?" Barty whines.

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Come on, you have to!"

"No, I don't."

"It's a Gryffindor," Regulus cuts in dryly.

That shuts them both up. Their heads swivel toward him at the same time.

Dorcas sputters. "How... how did you know?"

Regulus doesn't look away from the cauldron. He is watching the potion finally begin to tint toward purple... exactly what he was aiming for. He stirs it once, clockwise. "Because we'd approve anyone," he says, "except a bloody Gryffindor."

Barty groans as if there could be no greater betrayal. "Unbelievable."

"The judgment," Dorcas declares, throwing her hands up. "You don't even know her!"

"Do you?" Barty asks.

Dorcas scoffs loudly. Which is not an answer. Of course.

Barty bursts out laughing. "HA! Knew it. You don't know a single thing about her!"

"I don't have to," Dorcas replies, chin high, dreamy smile tugging at her lips. "She's fearless."

Barty groans and makes an exaggerated gagging sound. "Fucking Gryffindors."

"Come on, they're not all that bad. We've just been taught to hate them," Dorcas says.

She's right, of course. Regulus knows it. But he doesn't say anything. Because he would never admit that out loud.

"For a reason," Barty points out, "Though… objectively speaking, some of them are decent-looking."

Dorcas gasps. "Bartemius Crouch! Did you not just scold me for liking a Gryffindor a minute ago?"

"I said, objectively speaking!!"

"Okay, I need names right now."

Regulus clears his throat, not even sparing a glance towards Barty, his cauldron is much more interesting than this conversation. "If you say my brother, I will gut you where you stand and donate your remains to Slughorn's third years."

"Relax," Barty croons. "I vowed to hate your brother for you from the first year, and I will stick to that vow like the great friend I am, but Evans. Lily Evans is pretty hot."

Regulus rolls his eyes and turns back to the cauldron just as it shifts into the perfect shade of purple. The surface glistens like silk.

Ready.

He flicks his wand. Three slender glass vials float from the shelf, clinking gently onto the desk. With a steady hand, he begins to pour the potion.

"Oh, she is gorgeous," Dorcas whispers. "All of her friends are. Also Cassandra Vale, that girl from Herbology who always smiles at me."

"Is she your crush?" Barty asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

"No." Dorcas deadpans. "I'm just objectively listing people. See here, if I didn't want to snog girls exclusively," Dorcas says, "I'd say Remus Lupin's got a nice face. And he's polite too."

Regulus doesn't respond, but he agrees. Unfortunately, he was reminded of that very unfortunate fact a couple of days ago.

"And let's be honest," Dorcas adds, "Potter was basically posing for those naked Muggle magazines during last year's Quidditch final. He was shirtless, windblown, drenched in sweat--"

Regulus nearly chokes on thin air and immediately wants to stab himself with his dagger because why would she bring this up? Why would she bring up shirtless James Potter? He had just managed to get that image out of his head. It took some real fucking willpower from him.

"James Potter is insufferable," Barty announces with disdain. Then, noticing Regulus tidying the desk with a quick wand flick and gathering the vials into his pocket, he frowns. "Hey, where are you going?"

"Away from this conversation," Regulus mutters, already walking toward the door.

And then, with a satisfying slam, the door shuts behind him.

He will not think about shirtless James Potter again .

He absolutely won't.

Regulus is in the Greenhouses. It's after hours, and it's fucking dark outside, but he can't risk lighting his wand, not with the glass walls. Anyone could see.

He thought maybe, just maybe, Sprout kept some of the rarer ingredients in the off-limits greenhouse. The one no student was technically allowed into. But after searching far too long, he's found nothing that has any use for him.

What do you mean she doesn't keep the lethal plants in sight?

Regulus rolls his eyes. Fucking inconvenience.

He could try to get what he needs from Knockturn Alley, but he's not sure how to smuggle an order in without raising suspicion. He could, of course, go there himself and avoid owl post, but that's not possible before the Christmas holidays, which are months away. Completely useless.

He'll just have to look around the Hogwarts grounds. The place is ancient, with hundreds of years of death and decay in the soil. That's why there are so many ghosts lingering. And where there's death, there's growth. The right kind of growth he is looking for.

He's about to give up and slip out when he hears the unmistakable sound of the outer door creaking open. Footsteps. Someone slipping inside.

Regulus freezes, every muscle tight. He can only make out a vague silhouette through the mass of leaves and vines. Whoever it is, they're moving quickly, going from pot to pot, searching for something. They haven't lit their wand either, so Regulus has no idea who it is.

Regulus quietly backs into the corner, pressing his spine flat against the damp wall. He reaches for his wand.

Then, there is a loud clatter.

Something falls. Shatters. The sound ricochets off the glass walls like a bloody scream.

"Fuck," the figure hisses.

Regulus grits his teeth. Brilliant. Loud enough to alarm Peeves. Or that bloody cat.

He tightens his grip on his wand, heart pounding in the dark. Whoever that is, they've just made this a whole lot harder.

And Regulus is going to make sure they regret it.

The figure is waving their wand in the dark, whispering spells, probably trying to fix whatever mess they just made, but it only causes more noise. The jagged pieces of a shattered ceramic pot drag harshly across the cobblestone floor, scraping with a grating clatter that makes Regulus wince.

Around him, the greenhouse hums with quiet, living tension. The leaves of spiny plants twitch as if disturbed. And then, a door in the distance slams shut. A speck of light flashes as someone walks along the path towards the Greenhouses. Filch's lantern. Of course.

Fucking perfect.

"Stop that, you idiot!" Regulus hisses in a sharp whisper. This person is still making too much noise. Still trying to fix the mess instead of cutting their losses and hiding like a normal person. Who the hell is this? One brain cell. Maximum.

"Who's there?" the person calls out, curious instead of alarmed.

A boy. His voice is familiar.

Regulus feels his blood run cold.

No.

It's James Potter.

Of course, it is. Of fucking course it is.

Regulus hates that he recognises the voice. Absolutely despises himself for it. This is an excellent time, he thinks, for one of these carnivorous plants to strangle him. Or bite his head off. Anything to end this.

Why is James Potter here? Why is he everywhere? Is he stalking him now?

Regulus doesn't answer Potter's question. Instead, he ducks low, pressing himself against the base of a broad planter filled with Snargaluffs. Filch's lantern glow is getting closer, flickering shadows bouncing along the greenhouse walls.

Potter crouches down, too, moving blindly toward Regulus. "Seriously, who is there? I know I didn't imagine it," he mutters.

Regulus glares at the vines curling lazily along the floor, willing them to grab him, wrap around his throat... do something useful. But none of them so much as twitch.

Typical.

And then Potter is there.

Too fucking close.

Regulus doesn't even have time to move. Potter crouches low and rounds the planter, and before Regulus can slide further back or hex him, they're eye to eye. Inches apart. Faces barely lit by the ghost-glow of Filch's lantern sweeping past the outer glass.

James startles, blinking. "Regulus?"

"Shut up," Regulus hisses, grabbing James by the front of his jacket and yanking him down just as a shadow passes by the glass wall beside them.

Potter's shoulder slams against Regulus'. He smells like p ine and something warm; cinnamon, maybe. Why the fuck does he smell like cinnamon?

Or more like, why the fuck does Regulus notice he smells like cinnamon?

"Oh," Potter breathes. "Are we hiding?"

Regulus glares. "Do you want to get caught and scrub bathroom floors with Filch? Because if you say one more word--"

But Potter smiles. Of course, he does. That crooked, boyish gr in that's made half the school fall in love with him.

"I could just make a break for it," he whispers, leaning in like this is some sort of game. Like he can easily afford weeks' worth of detention.

Regulus presses his palm to James' mouth. "I swear to Merlin," he mutters under his breath, "if you breathe too loudly, I will personally feed you to the Giant Squid."

That is a thought, actually.

James just raises an eyebrow, looking far too pleased for someone being physically threatened.

Outside, the creak of Filch's boots crunch across the stone path. His muttering voice and the jingle of Mrs. Norris's collar move closer, then after what feels like an hour, further away.

Still, they stay frozen.

Too close. Regulus is pressed into the planter box, and Potter's body is pressed against his. He can feel the warmth of him through layers of clothes. The curve of his shoulder against his own. He is too aware of it.

Regulus scowls at the darkness. What did he do to deserve this?

Potter shifts slightly and whispers, "Your hand's still on my mouth, you know."

Regulus retracts it like he's been burned. He pulls his hand back and crawls backwards, banging his head accidentally on the planter box behind him.

"Fuck," escapes his lips as he winces against his will.

James' eyes widen, and he chokes on a laugh.

Chokes.

Because Regulus is faster with his wand. He's already clutching it, pointing at James, the incantation sharp and soft between his teeth. The spell doesn't need to be shouted to work; it's elegant, deliberate, quiet like venom slipping through gritted teeth.

Potter jerks, suddenly gasping. His smile falters as his airway tightens.

"Don't. You. Fucking. Dare," Regulus drawls.

And Potter.

Fucking Potter.

He grins.

Not scared. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just smug, like he's been waiting for this. Like he's enjoying it.

Regulus releases the spell with a flick; he's not going to give Potter any satisfaction, no matter how twisted.

"You're violent," James mumbles, rubbing his throat and coughing once, still smiling like Regulus is something interesting.

Regulus says nothing. He glares, sharp and icy. Potter shouldn't be surprised about that. Only violent, cold things survive in this world.

The greenhouse is quiet again, save for the soft creak of glass and the distant rustle of leaves brushing against the walls in the wind. Regulus rises to his feet in one quick motion. The beam of Filch's lantern is gone, swallowed by the dark.

Good.

Regulus strides toward the door, jaw tight, wand still gripped loosely in one hand. He's ready to leave. Ready to be free of this absolute torture of a night. He grabs the handle, yanks--

Nothing.

The handle turns, but the door doesn't budge. Not even a creak.

Regulus stills. His blood begins to simmer, rage curling low in his gut. No. No, this cannot be happening.

He tries again, rougher this time, but it's useless. Locked. Sealed shut.

"What are you doing?" James's voice is suddenly much too close again, his presence irritatingly warm at Regulus's side.

Regulus shoots him a withering glare, his voice flat with restrained fury. "I'm breaking out of this hell before I commit murder."

James rolls his eyes. "Just open the door?"

Regulus shoves it again, harder this time, his shoulder thudding against the cold glass. It doesn't budge.

"I thought you had muscle," James mutters, almost under his breath. "You know… Quidditch and all. No other reason, obviously. Uh--let me try."

"By all means," Regulus says dryly as he steps aside.

James grips the handle and yanks. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Still nothing.

Regulus crosses his arms. "Hm. Weird, isn't it, Mr. Muscle?"

James turns, breathless and slightly red-faced, and, of course, grins. "Regulus Black, did you just make a joke? I wasn't aware that was something you knew how to do."

Regulus doesn't answer. He just stares, the kind of stare that strips flesh from bone. James keeps grinning. He pulls out his wand and tries a series of spells. Not just Alohomora either; some of them are obscure and advanced. Regulus would be impressed if he hadn't decided years ago never to be impressed by anything James Potter does.

"Alright," James says finally, stepping back like he's just checked the time and found it slightly inconvenient, "so the door's jammed. No big deal. Maybe Sprout put a late-night locking charm on it or something."

"You broke the pot, you bloody dungbrain," Regulus mutters. "You triggered her protective wards."

"Dungbrain, huh?" James raises a brow, crossing his arms.

Regulus ignores him. He tilts his chin, scanning the glass ceiling tangled in thick vines. Blasting through it might be possible, but it would also set off the rest of the wards. After last year's Driftleaf incident, he's not surprised Sprout has reinforced the greenhouses. There used to be no protections; now, clearly, there are layer s.

James is watching him. "Don't worry," he says. "Sirius will come find us soon enough."

Regulus's head snaps toward him.

James just shrugs. "He'll notice I'm missing."

Something in Regulus coils at that. It shouldn't sting. But it does. It's petty. It's ridiculous. And yet it settles in his chest like a splinter he can't pull out.

No. Absolutely not. Regulus refuses to wait around for his brother to come to play the hero.

Regulus scans around, watching the corners, the walls, the creeping vines. If there are wards, there could be runes. And if there are runes, there's a way out.

His eyes narrow at the far wall. Curious, really. He'd never have guessed Sprout would be the type to weave her spells with runic anchors. However, any ward spell can be broken through with magic, and Potter's magic should have worked. It was well advanced. So there has to be runes.

"Shit," James swears behind him, sounding vaguely betrayed.

Regulus doesn't turn. Doesn't even blink.

"This one has fangs. Literal fangs." James continues as if this is the sort of conversation they always have. As if they talk. Ever. "I've never seen this one before-- oh, it just growled at me. That's definitely not normal."

He's talking like they're on a stroll through the bloody gardens. Like Regulus hasn't already fantasised, more than once, about silencing him forever. Of course, he wouldn't do it here. Too messy. Too risky. Too many questions.

So instead, Regulus ignores him.

His eyes stay on the vines; two of them, curling unnaturally, mirror images of each other. One trails up through the stone floor, thick and glossy, its twin descending from the ceiling to meet it in the corner. Perfect symmetry. And that, in nature, is never a coincidence.

Of course.

Sprout wouldn't engrave runes into the stone. Too visible. Too predictable.

She'd grow them.

Regulus steps closer, eyes narrowing. At first glance, they look like ordinary vines. But with closer inspection, he can see the subtle geometric scarring along the stalks... carvings disguised as natural veins. Runes, grown into the plant itself.

Delight flickers in his chest, sharp and satisfying. This is a puzzle he understands. This is something he can control.

"This one's kind of funky," James pipes up behind him. "All knobbly and squishy. Looks like a flobberworm had a baby with a -- oh. It's vibrating now. Should I be worried? I kind of want to touch it."

Regulus exhales slowly through his nose. "Go on. Touch it."

There's a brief pause.

"Yeah, see, now I don't want to," James says warily. "Something about you wanting me to makes it sound like a trap."

Wise, for once.

Regulus crouches by the thick vine trailing through the floor. He hovers his fingers just above the stem, reading the lines like a text only he can see. He murmurs a low incantation under his breath. A handful of the runes respond, glowing softly, greenish-blue.

Behind him, James continues. "It's just so... wobbly. Like it wants to be tickled."

Regulus' grip tightens around his wand. He breathes in, steadying himself. Surely, he wouldn't get caught if he just hexed Potter into silence. There are no witnesses, and it would be Potter's word against his. He could get away with it. Only every Professor adores James, and he is a Gryffindor. Regulus is a Slytherin. Slytherins never get away with anything; they get blamed for shit they don't even do just because they are Slytherins.

Regulus pulls his notebook from his pocket and opens it with a snap, flipping past the potion notes to a tucked-away section of Ancient Runes; sketches, translations, theories. He'd copied half these symbols by candlelight last spring during a week-long bout of insomnia. It didn't feel useful then. Now, feels like power. Like a key to lead him out of this torture.

"Look!" James says suddenly, far too close.

Regulus turns and freezes. Potter is holding a pot, beaming. The Mimbulus mimbletonia inside is bulbous, pulsating gently, and far too close to Regulus' face.

"Doesn't it look like a baby flobberworm?" James asks, fascinated.

Regulus recoils. "Take that away from me. Right now."

James' lips twitch into a mischievous smile. He jiggles the pot, and the plant jiggles with it.

Regulus flinches -- just slightly. "Potter. That's mimbulus mimbletonia. Do you have any idea what happens if you poke it?"

"No, but it really feels like you want me to find out."

"It explodes in stink sap. Sticky and revolting. Do not test me."

"I think it likes me," James says, gently rocking it again.

Regulus says nothing. He simply turns his back on James and crouches by the vine again, fingers hovering just above it. The runes react to his proximity. One here, another there with faint pulses of light.

James leans in over his shoulder, far too close again.

"So what are you doing?"

Regulus doesn't answer.

"Wait… is that a rune? On a plant?"

Regulus inhales sharply, closes his eyes, and thinks, briefly, vividly, of murder.

And then. Click.

A barely perceptible shift in the air. One rune complete. One layer of the ward unravelling.

"Merlin…" James whispers, awe creeping into his voice.

Regulus lifts a hand. "One wrong move, Potter, and we'll be choking on toxic pollen."

He doesn't actually think Professor Sprout would boobytrap her greenhouse with fatal enchantments. But a stunning spell woven into a vine? Something to keep intruders unconscious until morning? Absolutely possible.

He continues methodically, tapping runes and murmuring under his breath. With each whispered word, another satisfying click echoes through the quiet.

James crouches beside him now. Still too close. Still holding the bloody Mimbulus mimbletonia.

"How do you even know how to do this?" James asks, voice low.

"Ancient Runes," Regulus replies dryly. "You know. The elective."

"I do know what Ancient Runes is," James mutters.

"Then don't ask stupid questions."

"But what would keep you entertained otherwise?"

"You being strangled by that baby Devil's Snare."

"You're so violent," James repeats. "Besides, baby Devil's Snares don't strangle. They're more... mischievous."

"Oh, really?" Regulus murmurs, still focused. "Why don't you demonstrate that for me?"

James grins. Again. He's seen that grin far too many times tonight.

There's only so much he can endure.

Only so much control he can hold onto, especially after seeing James Potter shirtless, which was not a spiritual experience, thank you very much, and definitely not something he keeps replaying in his mind like an idiot.

He is just a boy. A very tired boy. And those eyes, those infuriatingly pretty eyes, keep looking at him like that.

That, Regulus decides firmly, is a secret he will take to his grave:

James Potter has pretty eyes.

And, apparently, he can both plot murder and think he has pretty eyes simultaneously. Multitasking.

Regulus draws his wand in a slow arc for the final rune, murmurs the last syllable of the unlocking charm and waits.

For one breathless second, nothing.

Then, a soft click. A ripple runs through the greenhouse, delicate as wind through silk. The vines go still. The glass hums faintly.

And with a groan, the door creaks open.

Regulus exhales.

"Can't believe you actually did that!" James laughs behind him, bright and utterly useless.

Regulus doesn't look back. He doesn't even want to know what Potter means by that. He pushes to his feet and strides for the door, like it might save him from his own thoughts. He needs air. Space. Sanity.

He's already outside when he hears it:

"Hey, Regulus!"

Regulus whirls around, murder-ready. If James ever calls him that again, he's going to cut out his tongue in his sleep -- the Muggle way, just because it hurts more.

But Potter is jogging after him. Still holding the bloody Mimbulus mimbletonia. Is he seriously planning on bringing that thing with him?

It throws Regulus off. Completely. And he hates that.

James reaches him and just says, "Thanks."

Then he smiles.

And Regulus wants to punch a wall. Or himself. Because why is Potter smiling at him like that? It should be illegal. It should be punishable.

And then James walks past him. Just like that. Down the path toward the castle, cradling the stupid plant like it's something delicate and precious.

Regulus just stares after him. Gaping. He's aware he looks like an idiot. There is nothing he can do about it.

And in that exact moment, he decides, grimly, privately, eternally, that yes:

He can absolutely plot James Potter's murder, think he has a pretty smile and a pretty face, all at the same time.

Chapter Text

James is starting to realise that his brain has two very different sides. Different frequencies, if you will. And he has no control over them whatsoever.

1. One side is rational. It's the part that knows right from wrong, smart from absolute troll bogeys. The part that understands, at least subconsciously, when to draw a line. When not to do something. Yes, he does have alarm bells in his brain. They do ring sometimes. But does he actually listen to them? That's a whole different story. Still, the rational side exists. It tries. It's there.
2. And then there is the other side. The side that watched Regulus Black unlock ancient runes in a damp greenhouse at midnight, dirt on his cheekbones, hatred in his eyes, and thought: hot.

Unfortunately, the second side is taking over all his brainwork.

And it's infuriating.

Because Regulus is Sirius's little brother. The Regulus Black. An actual Slytherin heir to a legacy that stands against everything James believes in. That supports the wrong side of this war.

War. Right. There's a war brewing. And all James can think about is how questionable it is that he finds Regulus attractive when Regulus will surely be one of them. The Death Eaters.

And still.

Still.

James keeps replaying the way Regulus's long, beautiful fingers gripped his wand. The way his voice dropped into something low and dangerous as he was casting those charms in the dark... It sounded like he was whispering wicked little promises to the night. And James is aware that it's mad to think that. To think about Regulus Black at all.

So he tells himself it's just curiosity.

That's all.

Regulus is obviously up to something. First, the cauldron, then the hidden passage, and now the greenhouses. And always at night, which clearly means nothing good. James would know.

So, yes. He's invested.

Which is why he's currently lurking in the prefects' bathroom. Again.

Regulus isn't even nearby, according to the map, but James had a bit of time to kill before lessons.

Yes, fine, he woke up early on purpose to have that time, but so what? Someone has to figure out what Regulus is up to before he gets someone hurt.

Because that's what people like Regulus do, isn't it?

They hurt people.

They get what they want, whatever the cost.

And that, James repeats to himself for the third time this morning, is not attractive.

Not even when Regulus holds a wand to his throat.

Nope.

Definitely not.

So James spends the entire morning in the bathroom, trying to figure out how to get past the mermaid and into the secret passageway behind her.

Nothing works.

He still doesn't know if it's a password, a spell, some good flattery, or just sheer luck. The mermaid, for her part, is absolutely no help. She's smug, silent, and truly uninterested in helping him.

He comes back the next morning.

And the one after that.

Eventually, the mermaid seems to grow bored with his persistence. She starts pretending to be asleep the moment he walks in, eyes closed, arms folded, floating dramatically in her frame like she's on strike.

One morning, in a flash of desperate inspiration (or maybe sleep deprivation), James even starts searching the tiles and surrounding walls for ancient runes because Regulus had worked with them so effortlessly, and maybe, just maybe, they were warding this passage too.

He finds nothing.

Not that he'd know what to look for anyway.

He never took Ancient Runes; didn't think he'd need them in life, let alone in a Hogwarts bathroom at six in the morning. The closest he's come is half-listening to Remus's rant about his homework over breakfast.

So far, it's gotten him nowhere.

But he keeps coming back.

Today, James is standing in front of the mermaid, clutching a crumpled piece of parchment filled with Mermish words he'd copied from one of Remus's books he found from the piles beside his bed. It's like a little library they have in their dorm; only no one uses it but Remus. Not that he understands half of what's written. Mermish, apparently, is more of a screech than an actual language, at least above water. So, he has no idea how to pronounce any of these words.

He tries to screech again. But how does one actually screech? The book said it sounds like a loud, harsh, piercing cry. James has a feeling it's something humans can't do. And him shrieking and squealing like an idiot sounds nothing like actual mermish. But you gotta give it to him for trying.

The mermaid in the portrait just arches her eyebrow at him. She looks curious, which James takes as a good sign. Or maybe she's trying to hold in her laughter. Either way, it's better than her pretending to be asleep. He straightens up. "How's my screeching?" he asks with a slight, charming grin.

The mermaid just rolls her eyes.

"Right," James sighs, and  checks his pocket watch, the one his dad gave him for his sixteenth birthday. Apparently, this is the age when every man should learn to be on time. Well, it's currently five minutes until History of Magic, and James is going to be late. Not that Binns would notice.

"Okay, I have to go," he says, shoving the parchment back into his bag and flashing a grin at the mermaid. "But I feel like this is progress."

The mermaid rolls her eyes. Again.

James just grins wider. "Progress it is."

He jogs out of the bathroom, down the winding staircases, two at a time, skidding into the History of Magic classroom just as Binns is droning on about something that happened a million years ago and surely doesn't matter anymore. The classroom is its usual chaos: half the Hufflepuffs are playing Exploding Snap in the back, someone's actually snoring in the front row, and Mary, Lily, and Marlene are huddled together in conversation. Lily's eyebrows are knitted together in concern, her forehead creasing just so. She spots James slipping into the Gryffindor side and smiles. He smiles back.

He'd asked her out once last year. Okay, maybe twice. Fine, three times. She'd said no every time, and they'd moved on. Now they are friends. It is nice, actually. To get along with all the girls in their year. The first few years had been mostly bickering, followed by a very awkward phase where they all seemed to have crushes on each other, giggles and blushes everywhere all the time. Now, they were over it, and it was...easy. Comfortable.

"Prongs!" Sirius exclaims as James finally reaches the table where his friends are slouched. "Where in Merlin's balls were you?"

"Oh, just…ran into someone in the hall." James drops into the seat next to him, feeling an odd twist of guilt for not telling Sirius where he really was. He doesn't want to tell Sirius that he thinks Regulus is up to something because, well, they never talk about Regulus. Sirius rarely mentions him, and James never asks. If Sirius ever wants to talk, James knows all of them will listen. But mostly, Sirius pretends none of it exists, and James plays along. It feels like the least he can do after everything Sirius has gone through.

So no, James tells himself, it's better this way. Not until he knows more, until he's sure Regulus is up to something. Then he'll say something. He'll tell Sirius. He'll tell all of them. But not yet.

Not until it matters.

"Who?" Sirius asks, leaning back in his chair, twirling his wand between his fingers. Then his eyes narrow. "Don't say Carter wants to add another running session to our Quidditch schedule."

James laughs. "No, don't worry."

"Hey, you missed it!" Peter pipes up from the desk in front of them, spinning around with a grin. "Betty opened her first bud this morning."

James blinks. "Who's Betty?"

Peter's eyes light up. "The Mimbulus mimbletonia you gave me! I named her yesterday."

"Right." James chuckles, shaking his head. "Of course you did."

"I think you should start naming your socks next," Sirius declares solemnly. "Maybe then you wouldn't always be wearing mismatched pairs."

Peter sticks out his tongue. "Says the one building a fortress out of laundry on our dorm floor. Including your stinking socks."

"My socks do not stink," Sirius declares.

James laughs. "Please. All our socks stink. That's why we steal Remus's; they are the cleanest."

"If only it were just my socks you lot stole," Remus mutters from beside Peter, his head tilted over his parchment as he scribbles down Binns' lecture. He's probably the only student in their year, Merlin, in the whole school, paying attention in History of Magic.

"We always return what we borrow," Peter offers, almost too innocently.

Remus shoots him a glare. Not a real one, though. James has seen that look often enough to know better. Truth is, he thinks Remus doesn't mind his things being borrowed. Or rather, he doesn't mind when it's Sirius doing the borrowing. James has caught it, how Remus always pretends to scold Sirius when a jumper is returned, but there's always a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. A softness to it. Like maybe he doesn't mind the way his clothes come back smelling like someone else. Like Sirius.

"Moony, I have a question for you," James says then. Remus turns to look at James; his under eyes are taking the usual purpling shadows that start showing a few days before the full moon. He gets so very tired, but he fights through it. Pretends like he doesn't want to just sleep the whole day. Not that he could sleep. He had once told them that just before the full moon, his body aches, especially at night when the moon shifts. After that, Sirius basically insisted on sleeping next to Remus every few nights before the full moon.

James smiles at his friend. He wishes he could help him more, but there is only so much they can do. This is why they are animagi, so they can be with Remus during the full moon, so he never has to endure it alone ever again. James hopes it helps a little. Not that Remus ever complains; they have just learned to notice the signs.

"What is it?" Remus asks.

James reaches into his bag and pulls out a thick book, setting it down with a soft thump. "You know the mermaid in the Prefects' bathroom? I can't find any information about her. Not in here, not in the library. Do you know why?"

Remus arches an eyebrow. "No one really knows who created her. But she's been there since the beginning, as far as records go."

"Why do you want to know about the mermaid?" Sirius asks.

James shrugs, "I just... I realised we were never really taught about her. She's always there, but no one talks about her."

Remus hums thoughtfully, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he studies James. "There's a theory that Salazar Slytherin fell in love with her. She was one of the merpeople in the lake. Something happened; maybe she died, maybe she was taken, and he was so heartbroken he had her likeness painted and enchanted so he could see her forever."

Sirius snorts, "Salazar Slytherin and a mermaid? Sure."

Remus shrugs, "It's probably rubbish, but that's all we know, really."

Sirius turns to James, eyeing him suspiciously. "Seriously, James, why do you care?" he asks again. "You do realise she's just a painting, right? You can't take her into a broom cupboard, no matter how shiny her scales are." He pauses, then adds with mock horror, "I mean… I suppose you could, but that'd be weird even for you."

James bursts out laughing. "I'm not trying to take her anywhere. I just ended up there after that Quidditch practice, and it started bugging me that we don't know anything about her."

"Sure, Prongs," Sirius grins, leaning back in his chair. "Sure thing. Don't worry; your mermaid crush is safe with us."

"I don't have a crush on the mermaid--"

"You went to the library for her," Sirius cuts in. "You never go to the library unless Remus is dragging us."

"I don't drag anyone," Remus mutters.

Sirius glances sideways at him, and for a second, something softer passes over his face, his mouth tugging into a half-smile, the kind with the dimple that only ever shows when he's looking at Remus. "We want to come, Moony," he says softly, then turns back to James with a wink. "Anyway, I get it. She's a hot mermaid."

"She has a tail," Peter says flatly.

"So do I," Sirius shoots back. "And so do you, Wormy."

"Don't remind me…" Peter groans.

The Slytherin common room is packed, and Regulus hates it.

It didn't used to be like this. But with the new curfews in place, everyone is inside unusually early for a Friday evening. It's Friday. People should be out in the castle doing the ridiculous things they usually do... not crammed in here, where Regulus usually gets to exist in peace.

Friday evenings used to be his favourite. Last year, the common room would be empty after dinner, leaving space and silence only for Regulus. And he liked it that way.

Because Regulus actually likes their common room. The high ceilings make the space feel breathable, and the tall, murky windows look straight out onto the lake. For some reason, looking into the lake calms Regulus's mind. The vastness of it all makes Regulus feel like everything is incredibly insignificant. Somehow, it's really calming, that thought. But then someone's loud laughter breaks through that serene thought, and he is back in reality, where everything is not insignificant.

He's sitting in his usual spot by one of the windows on the wide stone windowsill that doubles as a cushioned bench. His back rests against the cool wall, legs stretched out.

Across from him, Pandora is curled up with her notebook, entirely absorbed in whatever she's sketching. She hasn't said a word in a while, and Regulus likes that. He likes spending time with her because there's no pressure to speak. No need to fill the silence with meaningless conversation.

Regulus looks back at his book; for a book about Hogwarts ghosts, it holds ridiculously little information. Mostly, it just rambles about the ghosts' past lives and what they did when they were still alive. But it doesn't tell any of the interesting stuff; how they died, why they died and where.

There's an entire chapter dedicated to Gryffindor's ghost, of course, but everyone already knows that story. The bloody ghost won't shut up about it. Every year, he traumatises half the first-years by yanking off his head mid-sentence. Regulus skips the chapter without a second glance. He doesn't need to read another take of an execution with a dull axe.

There's barely anything on the Hufflepuff ghost either, not that it would help him. And as for the Grey Lady or the Bloody Baron... nothing. Not a whisper of how they died. And that's what bothers Regulus.

If it's not in the book, it means it was bad. Tragic, probably. No one even talks about the Bloody Baron. Why is he dragging chains around like some gothic punishment? Why does no one ask? Or the Grey Lady. She is barely around.

He looks up from the page. "Do you know why the Grey Lady is Ravenclaw's house ghost?" he asks.

"Huh?" Pandora blinks at him, surfacing slowly from her thoughts. "Sorry, what?"

Regulus tilts his head. "Why her? Why did she become Ravenclaw's ghost?"

Pandora squints at him like she's trying to focus. "She's Rowena Ravenclaw's daughter. Helena."

"Yeah, I know. But why did she choose to stay? What happened to her?"

"I don't know," Pandora says, shrugging. "She's not exactly chatty."

Regulus nods. He figured. If anyone was going to know, it would've been Pandora, she makes a habit of talking to the ghosts around the castle. She's even on friendly terms with the crying girl who haunts one of the girls' bathrooms.

"There's nothing about her in here," Regulus mutters, more to himself than to Pandora. "It's… curious."

"What are you reading?" Pandora asks, shifting slightly on the cushion.

" History of Hogwarts Ghosts ," Regulus says, flipping to the next page. He frowns at the measly paragraph on the Bloody Baron. "How is it possible that we don't even know the Bloody Baron's full name?"

"Well, have you asked?" Pandora says.

"No." Regulus mumbles.

"Exactly. Everyone's scared of him, and he's never really around," Pandora says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Myrtle once told me he floats around the school grounds at night. Says it makes him feel like he's serving some kind of sentence."

"What sentence?"

"No one knows. He refuses to tell anyone why he wears the chains."

"Well, that's not very helpful."

Pandora glances at him. "Why are you suddenly so interested in ghosts?"

"Because they're fascinating," Regulus says. It's not a lie. He is fascinated. But it's only half the truth.

"Well, in that case, you should come and talk to Myrtle sometime; she's really sweet," Pandora says with a smile.

Regulus nods, though he has no intention of ever doing that. He already knows everything he needs to know about Moaning Myrtle: she died in the school bathrooms and chose to haunt the girl who made her life miserable. Pandora told him that before. If Myrtle had died on the school grounds, however… well, that would have been extremely helpful.

His eyes flick around the common room, half-expecting the Bloody Baron to appear through the crowd like a spectre summoned by conversation alone. No luck like that, of course. The place is packed. The sofas by the fireplace are crammed with Slytherins: Wilkes, Mulciber, Snape, Avery, and Lestrange. They're hunched over two younger students, probably third years, looking like they're plotting something. Something Regulus doesn't care to bother about.

It's a shame about Lestrange, really. Regulus thinks they might've gotten on if Rabastan hadn't followed his older brother around like a shadow. Now that Rodolphus is gone, Rabastan's just slipped into the same crowd. Not that Regulus really cares what Rabastan does. He just knows him because their families are tangled together. The Lestranges were around a lot last summer because Bellatrix is one of them now; they are strong, pure blood, after all. Good blood, as his father likes to say.

He spots Dorcas then, weaving through the crowd toward them.

"Hey," she exhales, dropping her bag with a thud.

"Oh, hey!" Pandora beams. "Where's Evan?"

"He ran up to your dorm. Said he needed something," Dorcas shrugs, then promptly shoves Regulus's legs aside so she can join them on the windowsill.

"Big mistake," Regulus mutters.

"Why?" Dorcas squints at him.

"I'm sure you'll find out in about… three, two--"

Right on cue, Evan barrels down the dormitory staircase, anger all over his face.

"That bastard!" he growls. "What a bloody git!" His shout draws confused stares from across the room. "That's fucking unacceptable!"

"Agreed." Regulus murmurs.

Evan looks at him, eyes blazing, "Why did you allow this?"

Regulus raises an eyebrow, "What makes you think I didn't make the same mistake as you half an hour ago?"

Evan blinks, considering for a second, and then he is seething again. "We should feed him to the Giant Squid."

"What's going on?" Dorcas waves her hand between them, but Evan ignores her.

"Or to that giant spider in the forest. I'm sure he'd happily feed Barty to his children."

There is a giant Acromantula in the forest. Regulus, Evan, and Barty stumbled on its nest when they were twelve, middle of the day, thank Salazar. At night, they'd been dead. Back then, they didn't know the Forbidden Forest was actually dangerous. Thought Dumbledore exaggerated. They know better now.

"Agreed," Regulus says again.

"Can someone please tell me what happened--" Dorcas begins, but doesn't finish.

Because that's when Barty rushes down the stairs. And right behind him is Isla Carlow. His shirt is unbuttoned. Her hair is a mess. She's trying to tuck her blouse back into her skirt, her tie half-undone and swinging. It doesn't take a genius to understand what they were doing.

"Oh," Dorcas whispers as the common room goes quiet.

"Oi, Evan!" Barty calls. Evan turns around, practically shaking with rage. Regulus rarely sees him like this; Evan's usually the unreadable one. He's calm and collected, like Regulus. It's Barty who wears his emotions loud and obvious.

"I sleep in there, you prat!" Evan snaps.

"So what?" Barty says, a little breathless, as he skids to a stop in front of Evan. "It's not like we were doing it on your bed."

"Oh, they were doing it…" Dorcas murmurs under her breath beside Regulus.

"Might as well have!" Evan snaps, his voice sharp, almost cracking. "I sleep there, Barty!"

"Oi, Rosier, what's your problem?" Mulciber jeers across the common room. "It's just sex."

"Shut up, Mulciber," Carlow bites out. She's managed to fix her tie and is now standing stiffly with her group, cheeks blotchy and red, hair still mussed. Embarrassed but trying not to show it.

"Yeah, Rosier," Wilkes adds with a nasty grin. "You gay or something?"

That gets a laugh from the usual crowd.

Evan's hand flies to his wand. So does Regulus's.

Dorcas stiffens beside him. Pandora has already risen to her feet. But it's Barty who moves first.

He spins, stepping directly in front of Evan like a shield, his voice suddenly ice-cold. "This is none of your business, Wilkes," he snarls. "So shut your fucking mouth before I remove your tongue."

Wilkes whistles mockingly. "As if you'd dare, Crouch."

Barty laughs, low and humourless. He twirls his wand between his fingers, shirt still undone, chest heaving. "Try me," he whispers.

"Know your place, you little sh--"

Wilkes never finishes the sentence.

With a flash of light, he's yanked upside down into the air, his robes falling over his head, legs flailing. A collective gasp rises through the common room, followed by the slap of Wilkes' arms scrambling uselessly against the pull of the magic.

"Do something!" Wilkes shouts at his friends, red-faced and spinning.

Avery leaps to his feet and fires off a spell.

Too slow.

Barty flicks his wand again, deflecting it with a crack of light. "I said," he growls, voice vibrating with fury, "this has nothing to do with you."

Dorcas is moving before Regulus can, grabbing Barty's arm, dragging him back. "Come on, let's go," she mutters tightly, voice shaking with restrained anger.

Pandora is pushing Evan toward the staircase now, whispering urgently as he keeps trying to argue, eyes still burning. Regulus tucks his book under his arm, and trails after the chaos that his friends are.

He glances back, catching Snape flicking his wand lazily towards Wilkes. Regulus works fast, silent hex leaving the tip of his wand. Wilkes crashes to the ground with a loud thud. He is about to yell something at Snape, probably insult him for being careless and dropping him like that, but instead, black ink starts bleeding from his mouth. His eyes widen in shock, and then he is coughing, the ink splattering over his white shirt. Regulus turns and walks up the rest of the stairs.

"Why did you do that?" Evan bites out as Regulus closes the door behind them.

"Who, me?" Barty scoffs, flinging his arms up in exasperation. "We don't even like Wilkes. You remember that, yeah?"

"I don't need you to defend me!" Evan snaps. Pandora is still clutching his arm like an anchor, but he barely registers it. Dorcas nudges Barty further into the room, but he strides past her, stepping into Evan's space.

"I wasn't defending you. I hexed Wilkes because I bloody wanted to," Barty snarls, his jaw clenched. "What's your actual problem?"

Evan's breathing is heavy and erratic, his chest rising with every sharp inhale. He throws a hand out, gesturing wildly to the air around them. "This!"

Even Regulus is a little confused now. Because what is he on about? Barty got back at Wilkes for being an fucking git. And as Barty just said, they don't like Wilkes. They hate him.

Barty's brow furrows. "What?"

"You are such a prat sometimes, Barty!" Evan snaps.

"Evan..." Pandora tries softly, but he doesn't hear her. "Seriously, do you ever think about anyone but yourself?"

Barty takes a step forward, and Regulus watches every muscle in Evan's body go taut . "What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"You heard me." Evan breathes through gritted teeth.

"Seriously, Evan, what's your problem?" Barty repeats.

Evan takes a breath; Regulus catches his gaze roaming Barty's chest, then he grits his teeth. "You." He mutters coldly. "You are my problem."

Suddenly, Regulus feels like he shouldn't be there. He wishes he could vanish into thin air. Take Pandota and Dorcas with him. Give these two idiots the moment they need. A private moment. But there is nothing Regulus can do but stare.

"Me?" Barty says, stunned. His voice is barely audible.

"Yeah," Evan says. "You."

Barty just stares, eyes flicking over Evan's face, searching for something he can't seem to find.

Then, out of nowhere--

"I think you should talk to Lord Draben," Pandora says calmly.

Everyone turns to her.

"…What?" Evan chokes out.

Pandora gestures toward Regulus, "Regulus. You should talk to Lord Draben. He's a ghost who lives in the duelling room."

"Why?" Barty asks, looking genuinely disoriented now. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Reg said he's interested in the ghosts, and Lord Draben's a lonely one. He might actually talk. They'll all be at the Gloaming Feast."

"Oh, the in-between party," Dorcas chimes in, "That's next week, right?"

"Yeah. Last Saturday of September," Pandora replies with a gentle smile, as if they're not all standing on the verge of an explosion.

Regulus nods slowly. He had forgotten about it. He usually avoids those parties, but now? It's the perfect excuse to find some answers. All the ghosts will be there, which is actually bloody brilliant.

"We're going, right?" Barty asks, looking between him and Evan. Evan says nothing, but he seems to have calmed down a little. He is still just staring at Barty, who offers him a soft, asking grin. Slowly, Evan nods. And Barty's grin widens, then he turns to Regulus. "Reg?"

Usually, Regulus' immediate answer would be no, but this time, but this time, he gives a small nod too.

"Really?" Barty asks, eyeing Regulus like he's not sure if he's taking the piss or not. "You never go."

Regulus narrows his eyes. "Wipe that smirk off, or I'll change my mind."

He strides toward his bed, tossing his book down. When he glances at Pandora, she's already watching him with the ghost of a smile. Somehow, impossibly, she did it again, releasing the pressure just before an explosion.

It is a skill. A powerful one.

Chapter Text

"You sure you want to go?" Sirius asks, leaning against the doorway in his leather jacket, arms crossed. His wand is tucked into the messy half-bun in his hair, like always.

Remus is tying the laces of his Doc Martens. "Yeah." He says softly. "You know why I want to."

Sirius nods, jaw tight. He glances at James. James nods back, then James claps his hands once. "Alright, we're going. Pete, you ready?"

Peter's head pokes out from behind his bed curtains. "One second!" Then he vanishes again.

Sirius smirks. "Ah. Betty again."

"She's fine," Peter calls while pulling on his denim jacket. "Perfectly fine!"

"She's a ticking time bomb, and you know it," Remus says.

Peter sighs. "Yeah, but if we're all just really nice to her, maybe she won't feel the need to explode."

"She's a plant, Peter," Sirius deadpans, grinning.

Peter sticks his tongue out. "Doesn't mean she doesn't have feelings."

Sirius turns to James as he swings the door open. "This is your fault, you know."

James shrugs with a grin. "She's rare. Thought Peter would appreciate it."

"Oh, sure. And I'll appreciate you cleaning up the goo when she eventually explodes all over our dorm."

James nudges him as they head down the stairs. "Because you're such a clean soul at heart, Pads."

"Excuse me," Sirius says, hand over his heart. "I like my chaos organised, thank you very much. Not sticky."

Remus laughs softly. "Organised? You mean the way your sock is currently living in James' cauldron?"

"Exactly. I know precisely where it is."

The common room is empty. It's past the curfew, and the younger students are fast asleep. They climb through the portrait hole, and the Fat Lady lets out a wide yawn.

"Don't stay out late, boys, alright? I need my beauty sleep," she calls after them.

Sirius smirks. "Don't wait up! We're staying out all night."

They all fall silent as they sneak through the corridors. The only ones they need to watch out for are Filch and Mrs. Norris; every prefect is already at the Gloaming Feast. That's just how it goes. It's tradition. On the last Saturday of September, everyone joins the ghosts for their celebration by the shoreline across the Black Lake.

As they reach the stairs leading down to the boathouse, a gust of wind whips James's hair, and he can't help but smile. The night is perfect. It's the kind of night that feels suspended between seasons. The air is crisp but not yet cold, touched with the last breath of summer. The stars gleam in a clear, inky sky like scattered silver coins. There's no moon tonight, just a dark patch of sky where it should be. But it was full only a couple of nights ago.

It had been a good moon, all things considered. No injuries and no close calls. They'd stayed in the forest most of the night, wandering beyond the usual paths. Moony had been in a good mood; he and Padfoot had chased each other through the woods, tumbling in the leaves, barking and snapping like overgrown pups. James had watched over them, as he usually does. And it had been good. Really good. Not every moon is a good one like that.

As they reach the boathouse, only a few boats remain. One empty vessel is slowly drifting back on its own, guided by a trick of magic. James looks across the lake and sees several boats already floating toward the far shore, where a campfire flickers unmistakably in the dark. They could walk along the shoreline and the beach, sure, but it would take forever. The boats are faster.

"I fucking love this party," Sirius exclaims. He is vibrating with excitement as he climbs into a boat after Remus.

"Mhm," Remus smiles. "Let's not forget what we're actually celebrating. It's really important for the ghosts."

"Of course." Sirius nods eagerly. "I shall be celebrating the in-between respectfully. While getting absolutely sloshed. Respectfully."

Remus rolls his eyes, but he can't hide his grin, "Respectfully, hm?"

"Pads here has his own special meaning for respectfully." James laughs.

"Oi." Sirius yelps, "If the ghosts didn't want us there, they would have ratted this party to Dumbledore years ago. The whole idea is to celebrate the living and the dead. They want the living there too. That's the whole point."

"He's not wrong," James grins. Dumbledore could have banned this celebration decades ago, but he hasn't. There's no way he doesn't know half the school sneaks out every year on the last Saturday of September.

"Eeeeeeexactly." Sirius smirks, swinging his arm around James. "Tonight, we're going to have fun. All four of us! Hear that, boys?"

Remus lifts his arms in mock celebration. "Absofuckinglutely."

Sirius smirks, "Now say it like you mean it, Moony."

When they reach the shore, laughter and chatter fill the air. Boats bob gently in the shallows, and James splashes into the cold water as all four of them wade ashore. With a quick flick of his wand, Remus dries their clothes. The air shifts as they hit the beach. It feels colder there. Colder than it should be. It's the ghosts. They're everywhere, drifting across the sand, glowing faintly under the moonlight.

There is a narrow path that leads to the small cave behind the shoreline. There is a fire crackling at its mouth, and students are scattered around it. The shadows dance on the cave walls, and there is laughter everywhere. Tall trees loom on the other side of the cave, their silhouettes sharp against the night. 

A low, harmonic hum echoes across the beach. It shivers through, echoing in bones. James turns to the right and sees them: at least ten ghosts floating in loose formation, humming in harmony like a choir. The music is otherworldly and strangely beautiful.

It's all so eerie. And brilliant. James loves it.

The ghosts gather here every year. They say the magic is stronger in this place. That the Veil between worlds is thinner just before October begins. That is what they are celebrating there tonight, the in-between, the space between summer and autumn, between light and dark, between the living and the dead.

One year, nearly headless Nick told James that the lake is a threshold. A boundary between above and below. Apparently, the Veil thins more easily near deep, enchanted water. Which is why they are there by the Black Lake, and not in the Forbidden Forest.

"It's like stepping into a gothic novel," Remus says quietly as they start to walk through the beach.

"Bloody brilliant, isn't it?" Sirius smiles. He's already waving at Mary, Lily and Marlene, who are lounging against a fallen tree trunk. Mary beckons them over, and Sirius grabs Remus's arm, nudging him towards them.

Peter skids to walk next to James and looks at him, "Just don't lose me in the dark, yeah?" He mumbles so only James can hear.

James nods, knowing very well how much Peter hates the dark. He is not a fan of the Forbidden Forest at all, and most of the full moons he travels in James's back. "Don't worry, I've got you", James promises his friend.

Peter responds with a thankful smile.

"Just stay near the shoreline, yeah?" James gently taps him on the back, "I'm going to find us some drinks."

Peter nods, trailing after Remus and Sirius. James slips into the crowd, dodging arms and firewhiskey cups. He claps hands with a few familiar faces, Carter among them, who grabs him by the shoulder and reminds him of the next Quidditch practice.

He's just pouring firewhiskey into a cup when Nearly Headless Nick floats by, his expression remarkably chipper.

"James Potter! How's my favourite Gryffindor tonight?"

James laughs. "You say that to every Gryffindor, Nick."

Nick winks theatrically. "Doesn't make it any less true. I'd stay and chat, but I've spotted Patrick Delaney-Podmore looking unusually cheerful. Might finally get myself into the Headless Hunt this year!"

"Good luck with that!" James calls after him, juggling four drinks carefully as he begins to weave his way back through the crowd.

When he reaches his friends, Remus and Lily are discussing a book they both read for a book club they have, just the two of them, because no one else can keep up with their reading pace. Sirius, Peter and Marlene are discussing Quidditch and the upcoming match Gryffindors have against Ravenclaws. Sirius already has a drink in hand when James hands one to him. "Where did you get that?" He grins.

"Just from a... uh... she was this blonde girl, I think Hufflepuff." He glances vaguely around the beach.

"Maisie Dobbins," Marlene mutters.

"Yes, her!" Sirius smirks, finishing his drink while reaching for the one James brought for him with his other hand.

"She's actually really nice," Marlene says, giving Sirius a look. "Always lets me borrow a quill in Charms when I forget mine."

"I'm sure she's a delight," Sirius says, nodding gravely, though the smirk never leaves his face.

A couple of hours later, James has lost his friends, and by lost, he means there are so many people on the beach and so many ghosts that he could have sworn he only turned around for half a second, and they vanished. Poof. Disappeared into thin air. He's trying to look for Peter because Peter doesn't like the dark. James remembers that.

"Pete?" he calls.

Nothing.

How dare he not answer? How can James find him if he doesn't answer?

He grabs someone passing by, a tall seventh-year he vaguely recognises from Herbology. "You seen Peter Pettigrew?"

The girl shakes her head.

"Well, shit," James mutters, taking a slow sip of firewhiskey like it might sharpen his vision. It doesn't. But it does warm his chest, and that's something.

"Pete?" he tries again, a little softer this time. No one answers. And then someone is shouting his name.

"JAAAAAAAMES!"

The voice crashes through the air like a quaffle through glass. James startles and nearly spills his firewhiskey.

Sirius.

He turns to see his best friend barreling toward him with such urgency on his face. His leather jacket is askew, his hair falling to his face, and he's holding a glowing jar of something green.

"Prongs!" Sirius barrels to a halt in front of him, breathless and flushed, eyes wide. "I need you!" he announces, grabbing James by the arm and yanking him forward.

"What? What's going on?"

"I just-- It's urgent! Come on!" Sirius blurts, speaking way too fast as he pulls James through the crowd. Bodies blur past them; laughter, dancing, puffs of smoke, and James barely manages to keep up.

Then, just as suddenly as he started, Sirius stops dead in his tracks.

James crashes right into him. "Bloody hell, Pads--"

"Sorry," Sirius mutters, but he doesn't move. He's staring past the fire, gaze locked somewhere deep into the cave.

James steps up beside him. He squints into the chaos. "Okay," he says, catching his breath. "What exactly are we looking at?"

"Who is that?" Sirius mumbles, shifting from one foot to another, pointing at someone. His hand's not steady, and James can't tell where the hell he's aiming.

"Who?" James asks.

"That boy who's with Remus?" Sirius clarifies, and then James manages to find what Sirius is looking at. He is not looking into the cave but to the side of it, where Remus is standing with a tall boy. They seem to be talking, and the boy laughs, nudging Remus to his chest. Remus smiles and blows a puff of smoke from his cigarette.

"Isn't that the Ravenclaw chaser? Ferrow something..." James mumbles.

"Oh yeah. That git." Sirius mumbles; he takes a sip of his glowing green jar of something. James kind of wants to taste that, too. It looks delicious.

"Why is Remus speaking to him? He is a knobhead."

James pinches the bridge of his nose. Because what?

He turns to stare at Sirius. Squints his eyes. Is Sirius jealous, or is James just too drunk to read his best friend? Because if Sirius is jealous... well, that is a brand new development.

"I think he's actually alright", James tries softly.

"A knobhead," Sirius repeats. He doesn't tear his eyes from Remus.

"And why is that?"

"Because!" Sirius exhales sharply, like the answer should be obvious. "He's… tall."

James blinks. "What?"

"Tall like a tree," Sirius says solemnly like it's a universally accepted flaw. Like it's something Remus has on a checklist.

"Mmm, okay. Yes, sure." James nods slowly.

"I'm not tall." Sirius mumbles.

James coughs a little out of pure confusion. "What?"

He feels like his brain is working too slowly for this. Like he should be a better friend at this moment. Like Sirius is having a moment. Which James has been waiting for. For Sirius to get there. Or at least say something about it. And now James has had too many firewhiskeys and he just he gapes and waits.

"Remus never said he likes tall boys", Sirius mutters.

This is true. Remus has never told them if he has a type, but James knows Remus' type is standing right in front of James right now. James just knows. He's not stupid. Sirius is. When it comes to this, Sirius is literally just a boy who has no idea.

James takes a deep breath. "He's allowed to... you know--"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence when Sirius' head snaps to him, his eyes watery and blurry from all the alcohol and smoke. "Of course he is! He just... He just... I'm just saying that... you know, he shouldn't waste his time on that knobhead, he's better than that."

James tries to fight his smile, "Oh really?"

"Don't you think?" Sirius asks, then his head whips back to Remus, "Remus is... exquisite." Sirius mumbles, "And he is... well, he is just a random boy. He's not exquisite. No one is, just Remus."

James opens his mouth, says nothing, and closes it. And just stares at Sirius. He feels like this moment shouldn't be interrupted. Like Sirius is truly finally having the revolution they have been waiting for. James is just afraid Sirius is too drunk to remember it in the morning.

"Fellow doesn't deserve him," Sirius mumbles.

"Ferrow," James corrects quietly.

"Whatever." Sirius waves him off like the name itself offends him.

"You know they're just talking, right?" James points out.

But Sirius isn't listening. "I'm going over there."

James catches his arm before he can take a step. "No, you're not."

Sirius tugs against the grip. "Prongs, let go... I need to--"

"Not happening," James says firmly.

Because he loves Sirius. And he loves Remus. And he would love nothing more than for the two of them to pull their heads out of their arses and figure it out already. But not like this. Not when Sirius is drunk and messy. Drunk Sirius means he'll say things he will regret, or worse, he will say things he won't remember the next day. And James just knows that it will hurt Remus more than anything. If Sirius says something, he doesn't remember the next day.

"You need to have these thoughts sober, mate," James says quietly, still holding onto Sirius's arm.

But Sirius doesn't seem to hear him. His eyes are locked on Remus, distant and unfocused. James nudges Sirius's arm again, firmer this time. "Okay, let's find you some water, yeah?"

This time, Sirius doesn't resist as James guides him back to the beach, toward the drink barrels. James scans the barrels, hoping for water. No luck, of course. Who's here for water at a party like this?

With a sigh, James drains the last of his firewhiskey, then points his wand at a cup. "Aguamenti," he mutters, and a steady jet of clear water streams from the tip into the cup. Fuck yes.

But wait.

If one hand holds the cup, and the other holds the wand... what hand is holding Sirius?

Neither.

James swears under his breath and scans around, heart pounding. Sirius is gone. Vanished.

James glances toward where Remus was standing a moment ago, only to find the space empty. Great. Just great.

"Hey, Prongs."

James jumps. Remus is suddenly right in front of him.

"Shit, Moony. Hey!" James says, eyes flicking over his shoulder again. Still no sign of Sirius.

Remus nods at James' cup. "Moved onto water already?"

James forces a grin. "No, this is for Sirius. I just can't seem to find him."

"He's there." Remus's voice is suddenly cold, drained of warmth.

James follows his gaze and swears out loud.

Sirius is tangled up with a blonde girl, pressed against a tree, his tongue buried deep in her mouth.

James turns back to Remus. A tight muscle twitches in his jaw. And James knows, he knows, how hard Remus is fighting not to show it. Not to let it crack through.

He wants to say something. Wants to tell him what Sirius said just minutes ago. But it's not his place. Of course, it isn't.

"I'm gonna go," Remus mutters, already turning away. He says something about needing a smoke, but it's barely audible.

James doesn't stop him. He just stands there, watching him disappear into the dark, feeling useless.

Remus knows it's stupid. Pathetic, really, to be running away, but he just can't take it right now. It's because he is drunk, and when he is drunk, he doesn't seem to have as much self-control as he usually does. Because normally, he's composed. Collected. Cool.

He's accepted the fact that he's utterly, hopelessly, pathetically in love with his best friend, who will never feel the same way. And usually, he can handle that. He hides it so well that no one suspects a thing. Not even a flicker.

But tonight… tonight, he's not so sure. He thinks James might have seen something in his face, and that terrifies him more than anything. Because James can't know. No one can know. Ever.

So he walks. Fast. Shoving past students, slipping through ghosts who shiver the warmth from his bones. He mumbles apologies as he goes because he knows it doesn't feel nice for them either, being passed through like mist. Like nothing.

"Shit," he mutters, fumbling for his pocket. His fingers curl around the last cigarette. He wasted too many earlier with that Ravenclaw boy.

The Ravenclaw was cute, sure. Flirty even. But he made Remus feel absolutely nothing.

Nothing.

And that's the worst part. Remus never feels anything. No matter how many boys he kisses, no matter how many pretty smiles lean toward him, it's always just… hollow. He can't escape the want for that one boy. One boy he can't have.

It's like he is cursed. Like his whole life is just a cruel joke. 

Remus pulls his hands through his hair as he walks along the shoreline. He has no idea where he is going. He just knows he needs to get as far as possible. 

It was barely less than 48 hours ago when Sirius was curled up in his bed next to Remus. Less than 48 hours ago, his body was pressed against Remus's, and Remus was begging for mercy from Merlin. But Merlin didn't listen. Because this is not mercy. This is torture. 

How is it possible that Sirius can be so close and still feel so impossibly far away? Like he is right there, but Remus can't reach for him. Can't touch him.

Remus shakes his head. He knows why. It's simply because Sirius is a good friend. Around the full moon, he wants to make sure Remus is okay, or as okay as he can be. That's the only reason. That's why he always climbs to Remus' bed the night before the full moon. Just to make sure he is okay. Because Sirius is kind. Loyal. Good.

And Remus is a terrible friend.

Remus takes a deep breath. The shoreline has turned jagged, the soft sand giving way to stone. He can barely hear the music and laughter from the beach now. Good. That's what he wants. Space to quiet his mind.

He rounds a corner of a massive rock, and with a flick of his wand, he lights his cigarette. Then, someone bumps into him. And Remus drops his cigarette.

"Fuck." Remus swears.

"Watch where you are going." Someone snaps.

Remus lifts his head, already scowling. His last cigarette. Gone. Because of this fucker. And of course--

Of course, it has to be Regulus Black.

He is staring at Remus with as much disdain as Remus feels boiling in his chest. He holds a small vial in one hand, something cloudy and faintly shimmering inside. Oh, that catches Remus' attention. It looks intriguing. Like he's bottled up clouds from the amber sky.

"You lost me my last cigarette," Remus mumbles.

Regulus arches an eyebrow. He flicks his wand, and the cigarette lifts from the stones, hovers mid-air right in front of Remus. Still lit.

Remus looks at the cigarette. Then, at Regulus. Regulus stares right back. Remus' eyes flick to Regulus' little vial again. It looks so calm and peaceful, the liquid inside. Like something Remus isn't right now.

His heart is still pounding in his chest, and he just wishes he could not think about Sirius for one fucking moment.

"Fine." Regulus grunts.

Remus blinks, looks at Regulus, "What?"

"I'll trade you," Regulus says, lifting the vial slightly. "This for that." He nods at the cigarette.

"I don't even know what that is."

"Yet you still want it."

"It could be poison."

Regulus shrugs. "Sure."

Remus doesn't think about it more. He wants to blur the edges of everything until nothing feels like Sirius anymore. And this... whatever it is. Remus feels like it will help.

Remus holds out his last cigarette. Regulus extends the vial.

They trade.

"Wouldn't drink it all at once," Regulus says flatly. Then he places the cigarette on his lips and inhales. He steps past Remus and starts to walk towards the beach and the Gloaming Feast. He doesn't look back.

Remus looks down at the little vial in his hand. For a second, he considers not touching it. He has no idea what it is. It's Regulus Black. It could be anything. Regulus said so himself. It could be poison. It could kill him.

But somehow, he doesn't think it will.

And he's a little desperate right now. He just wants to feel nothing. Even if it's only for a moment. He knows it's cheating. Because it always comes back, that feeling. But still. Just for a little while.

So he drinks it.

Regulus can't believe he came to this party. He's just wasted hours walking aimlessly around the beach trying to find the Bloody Baron, who is clearly not here. And Lord Draben? How was he supposed to find a ghost he's never even seen before? He did speak to some of the ghosts he'd passed, but none of them were able to provide him any useful information. Utter and absolute waste of time.

He smokes the last of his cigarette, the one he got from Remus Lupin, of all people. He hadn't expected to get it; Lupin had looked like he might hex him on the spot. Honestly, Regulus had been kind of expecting it after what happened the last time they saw each other. But Lupin had seemed too caught up in his own head to realise who he was even talking to. And he had been so bloody desperate for Regulus' potion. Regulus saw it in his eyes. And it had been a moment of weakness, because Regulus has no interest in helping Remus Lupin feel better, but he had wanted that cigarette. They are so hard to come by.

He passes a couple lying on the sand, making out loudly and obnoxiously. Regulus rolls his eyes. A few more students are hiding in the long hay, giggling and smoking something that definitely isn't a cigarette.

Regulus moves away from the beach, towards the low hill that takes him away from the party, where it's quieter. More peaceful. Only a few ghosts float past, drifting through the hay like they're having a good time.

Someone is walking toward him, a small figure, distressed. They don't even register him as they rush past. It's one of Sirius's friends. Pettigrew. He's muttering to himself, head twitching side to side. Regulus rolls his eyes again. People shouldn't drink if they can't handle it.

He feels a cold breeze float through him; it means there is a ghost nearby. He looks away from Pettigrew, and there she is. The Grey Lady. Gliding through the long swaying hay, her expression serene but searching, as if she were waiting for someone. Her gown moves with ethereal grace as she smooths the hems with delicate fingers.

Regulus takes a slow, steadying breath. He doesn't have much time if whoever she's waiting for shows up. He shoves his hands in his pockets and approaches her. He has no idea what to say. He doesn't know anything about her. Just that she's the Ravenclaw house ghost. So, he goes with what he knows best.

He makes it look accidental. Keeps his head down. Turns slightly, just enough to make it seem like he hasn't seen her at all. As if he's about to walk straight through her.

She huffs and shifts out of the way.

"Humans," she mutters, offended. "So self-centred."

Regulus glances up. "Didn't see you."

"Of course you didn't." She scoffs.

"Sorry... uh-- who are you?"

Her eyes narrow with immediate disdain.

"Who am I--? Who am I? I am the Grey Lady, the Ravenclaw house ghost."

"Oh. My bad." Regulus shrugs. He looks her up and down, frowning slightly like he's still not convinced. "You don't look that grey to me."

She scoffs again, indignant, fluttering one hand at her gown. "Are you trying to be funny?"

He raises an eyebrow. "No. But just maybe your name's a little misleading. You are more silver. Even bluish with the glow."

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her expression twists, offended. "I'm not called the Grey Lady because of my appearance, boy."

Regulus opens his mouth and lets out a confused "Oh."

"Don't you know any folklore?" she snaps.

Of course, he does. He's read plenty of ghost stories from both the Muggle and magical worlds. And then it clicks. The Grey Lady. A ghost of a woman who haunts a specific location. Murder or suicide. Usually, a tragic betrayal. Usually by a lover. He hides the spark of recognition and the flicker of excitement behind his unbothered expression and shakes his head.

"Can't say I do."

She looks even more offended now, which, if anything, means it's working. She clearly hates being forgotten. Hates not being recognised.

"What do they teach you at that school?" she mutters.

Regulus shrugs. "Clearly nothing important."

"Disgraceful," she says, glaring at him now. "The Grey Lady is a name they gave me. I didn't choose it. I didn't want it. Like some common Muggle ghost. Someone who doesn't mean anything. While… while--" She stops. Abruptly.

Regulus swears silently. So close.

He doesn't push. Just blinks, letting her drop it. She needs trust.

Instead, he says casually, "I heard you're hard to track down. Don't usually show up for just anyone."

"I don't owe you an explanation," she says.

He didn't expect her to.

"Didn't ask for one," Regulus replies, stepping past her, like he's already moving on. Then, as if it's an afterthought, he adds, "Just odd. Thought ghosts like you usually avoid these kinds of parties."

"I do avoid them."

"Oh, really?" There's a faint amusement in his tone now, just enough to make her glare again.

"You're very curious for someone who didn't even know who I was," she says sharply.

Regulus turns back to her, smooth and slow, offering the smallest, most deliberate smile.

"I never said I didn't know."

Her expression shifts just a little. She looks almost impressed.

"Clever little Slytherin," she murmurs.

Regulus shrugs, then turns to face her fully. "Helena, isn't it?"

She doesn't even try to hide how pleased she is that he knows her name. "And you are?"

"Don't you already know my name?"

She offers him a slight smirk, arching her eyebrow, "Why would I know who you are?"

"Because you just called me a Slytherin." Regulus says, "And I'm not wearing my robes at the moment."

She huffs, "I just made a clever guess."

Sure Helena. Sure.

But Regulus drops it for now and just nods, "Regulus."

"Why are you here in the woods and not over there with your friends, Regulus?" she asks, waving vaguely toward the distant echo of laughter and chatter drifting from the beach.

"I don't like crowds. Too much noise. Too many people." His answer is honest, and that seems to earn a little of her approval. She nods once.

Regulus leans against the nearest tree. "So, Helena," he says, tasting the name, letting it sit on his tongue like something rare. Her eyes flash at that. She likes it; clearly, no one calls her that anymore. Not by her name.

"Will you tell me why they call you the Grey Lady?"

She hesitates. Glances around as if someone might overhear. Her voice is quiet when she speaks.

"I was betrayed by someone who claimed to love me."

Regulus nods. He'd guessed as much.

"My mother gave me the name after I died. Tied me to a man. As if my legacy meant nothing. As if all that mattered was that I was loved by him. Not what I did. Not who I was. Just… who loved me. A man."

Regulus crosses his arms. Now, this is something. "Did you die at Hogwarts?" he asks.

She scoffs. "No."

His interest dips immediately; of course , she didn't. It would've been too good.

"I died far away from here," she says coolly. "In the hands of the man who loved me."

Tragic. But not what he needs. "So are you waiting for him now, then?" he asks.

She looks at him like he's slapped her. "Absolutely not."

He shrugs, unfazed. That seems to prompt her to keep talking.

"Tonight, the veil is thinnest between the living and the dead, Regulus. It means the ghosts can roam more freely, further away from where we have passed. The magic that binds us to where we died does not hold us back. Not tonight."

"How can you reside here beyond tonight if you died far away from here?" Regulus asks.

She exhales dramatically. "Because he brought my body back. To my mother. To Hogwarts."

"Ah." He nods. "So you're waiting for someone else, then? Someone who doesn't normally linger this close?"

"Yes," she whispers, turning slightly. Her eyes dart around as another ghost floats past, but it's not the one she's hoping for. Disappointment flickers across her face.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," Regulus says politely. "Don't want to intrude."

She looks almost surprised by the courtesy, then offers him a small, solemn nod. "Be careful. Something is shifting in the air tonight. The magic is strong. Too many dead and living gathered in one place. And there is always someone who desires more than they're meant to have."

Her expression changes to something sharp and painful, but it's gone in a heartbeat.

Regulus nods once, then turns, heading back toward the path that will take him to the castle. He doesn't have what he came for. Not exactly. But he has something. He tugs it away for now; maybe in the future, he'll need it.

He doesn't get far on the beach before he hears a voice he hates to recognise immediately. Bloody Salazar. Regulus would give anything to scrub it from his memory.

"Pete?" James Potter is shouting.

Regulus keeps walking. Maybe, just maybe, Potter won't see him in the dark.

"Peter Pettigrew!" James shouts again, even louder. Regulus grits his teeth.

"Oi! You!"

Regulus swears under his breath and picks up his pace. He is nearing the shoreline again where the sand turns into rocks, maybe he can hide from Potter in ther and--

"HEY!" James is louder now, closer. "Have you seen Peter Pettigrew?"

Regulus doesn't answer. Doesn't stop.

"I'm talking to you!"

Something hits him in the back. It doesn't hurt, but it does make him stop. Another one follows. He whirls around.

James Potter is closer than expected; he's smirking, then his face falls for a second as he takes in who is in front of him, "oops," Escapes from his lips.

Regulus narrows his eyes. "What the bloody hell was that?"

James lifts up a box of something. "Can I interest you in Fudge Flies?"

Regulus stares at the box, then at him. "I'm going to hex the sand to swallow you whole, Potter."

James laughs. "Not your best performance. It's a bit of a giveaway when you tell me the threat out loud."

"Oh really?" Regulus tilts his head.

James just grins. Regulus hates that grin.

"Have you seen Peter Pettigrew?" James asks.

"No", Regulus replies.

"Liar." He pops another Fudge Fly into his mouth, chewing slowly.

Regulus stiffens. How the bloody--

"You've got a similar tell to Sirius," James answers casually like it's obvious.

Regulus bites down on his tongue. He does not have a tell. Certainly not the same one as Sirius.

James holds the box out again. "No? Fine, more for me."

Then, he turns and shouts into the dark lake, waving the box overhead like an offering to the merpeople.

"PETER PETTIGREW! I'VE GOT FUDGE FLIES! YOUR FAVORITE!"

Regulus stares at him. James is drunk. And fucking stupid. But that's nothing new.

James sighs, frustrated. "Where is he?" He scans the water, voice slurred at the edges now. Regulus decides he has already wasted too much time humouring this idiot.

He's about to turn when the air changes.

Something shifts. Cold, sudden, unnatural. Like the wind, but heavier. Magic.

Then. Silence.

Not quiet. Silence. Everything drops. The water lapping, the distant party, even the air itself goes still.

And for a heartbeat, Regulus doesn't see James as he is now.

He sees him drenched in blood. Pale. Shaking. Dead eyes staring at something Regulus can't see.

Then it's gone. With the blink of an eye, James is back. Whole. Alive. But frozen in place, horror carved across his face.

His mouth opens, but before he can speak, the screaming starts.

And then chaos erupts.

Chapter Text

James is running headfirst into the chaos. The beach is a blur; people are sprinting past him, shoving, screaming, their faces wild with panic. He can barely see. He can barely breathe. Someone crashes into his shoulder, nearly knocking him over. Another grabs his arm, shouting something he doesn't understand, before disappearing into the river of bodies fleeing toward the castle.

Everyone is trying to get out.

But James is running in.

"Sirius!" he yells, his voice raw, barely rising above the noise. His throat burns, but he keeps shouting. "Sirius!"

More people shove past him. Some are crying.

"SIRIUS!"

His heart is pounding against his ribs. He doesn't stop. He can't. The only thing keeping him moving is the last place he saw Sirius; the fireside. If he can just get back there. If he can just--

"Remus!" he tries this time, voice cracking. "Peter?"

He has no idea where Remus is. He has no idea where Peter is. He just needs to find his friends. He knows shouting in this chaos doesn't help. No one can hear him, but it's all he has.

He doesn't understand what just happened. It was like the world had shattered. There was unnatural silence. The air shimmered. And it all felt wrong.

No one seems to be hurt, but still, everything is in chaos. Even the ghosts are disappearing.

He stumbles again and nearly falls. Someone else runs into him, screams right in his face, and bolts. James pushes his hand through his hair, vision spinning. He's drenched in sweat.

"Sirius!" It's a broken cry now, and his throat aches from the effort. He is nearing the cave and the fireside, or what's left of it. The fire's snuffed out. The beach is dark, and there is only smoke swirling in the air.

His wand is out now; he doesn't even remember pulling it. He holds it tightly, but it feels useless in his hand.

He doesn't see any blood. No bodies. But people are fleeing like they've seen death itself.

Someone stumbles past James, nearly toppling over on the uneven ground. He lunges instinctively, catching her just before she hits the ground.

"Shit. Are you okay?" he asks, breathless.

The girl clutches his arms, her eyes wide and glazed like she's not fully here. "The stag," she whispers, voice trembling. "The stag... it collapsed."

"What?" James frowns, steadying her, but before she can say more--

"JAMES!"

The cry cuts through the air, and James barely has time to turn before Sirius slams into him, nearly knocking them both down.

James reaches for his friend, both hands gripping Sirius' arms. "Sirius!" he breathes, alarm spiking instantly. "What's going on? What happened? Are you hurt?"

But Sirius isn't listening.

"Remus!" he chokes out. His eyes are wild and unfocused. He's spinning in place, scanning the crowd or what's left of it. "Remus! I saw him! James, I saw him! There was green light... his chest... he... James--"

His voice breaks on the last word, and that's when James sees it, actual tears streaking down his friend's cheeks, cutting through dirt and ash. His breath catches.

"Sirius," James whispers, barely able to speak. "Where is he? Where is Remus?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" Sirius screams, wrenching himself from James's grip. "I lost him. He was right there by the beach, and then, then he was just gone!"

James feels like his lungs are collapsing.

He can't think. Can't breathe. The beach is too loud and too quiet all at once.

"We have to find him," James says. "We have to-- Sirius, look at me. We'll find him, okay?"

But Sirius is barely holding it together. His chest heaves, his eyes darting around, "What if we're too late?" he whispers. "What if it was-- I saw it, James. I saw green."

James grabs him again, firmer this time. "We're not too late. You hear me? We find him. Now."

James is not going to even think about what Sirius is indicating because it is not true. Remus is okay. Remus has to be okay.

Something is wrong on this beach. James saw it too, just for a flicker of a second, like a trick of the light. Regulus, soaking wet, his skin drained of all colour, water spilling from his mouth as he choked on it, eyes wide with panic, drowning on the dry land. And then… he wasn't. Regulus stood there again, alive, dry, real. Like nothing had happened. And then the chaos exploded.

James doesn't know what it means. He doesn't understand any of this. But he's decided it must've been an illusion. It had to be. That's what Sirius saw, too. That's what they all saw. Remus is fine.

He has to be.

James sprints after Sirius, who's charging blindly through the hay, crashing through like a wild thing.

The ghosts are gone. The students are gone. All the noise is gone.

Just them. And the water roaring on the shoreline like it was disturbed.

"Who has the map?" James yells.

Sirius skids to a halt, turning back with wild, furious eyes. "We left it in the dorm!" he shouts.

James curses under his breath and out loud. He turns a slow circle. They are in the middle of a field of hay, and there is no one there. Just uphill that leads further away from the castle. No one would flee that way. The beach is empty too, Sirius is charging further and further away from it.

"Remus?" Sirius screams into the silence.

No one answers.

They're truly alone now.

Then, from somewhere near, the sharp thud of hooves hitting the earth.

James lifts his wand, breath catching. Sirius does the same.

A shadow moves from behind the cave, and then a figure steps out. Half-man, half-horse. His long body gleams in the moonlight, muscles taut, tail flicking. His upper half is bare-chested, cloaked only by his thick, curling hair.

A centaur.

"You have overstayed your welcome," the centaur says, voice like thunder rolling over the earth. He is moving towards them. "Return to the castle. Like the others."

"But our friend--" Sirius begins, desperation cracking his voice.

"It is not safe here anymore," the centaur snaps, loud and final.

"We're not leaving without him," Sirius insists, stepping forward, voice rising. "Our friend--"

"No human remains," the centaur cuts him off. 

James's breath stops cold in his chest. "What?" he gasps.

The centaur doesn't repeat himself.

"Go," he commands, stepping closer. He towers over them, every inch of him humming with restrained fury, not at them, James thinks, but at something else.

Sirius looks like he's about to fire a spell at the centaur, but James grabs his arm. Tight.

"Come on," James says, voice hoarse. "We'll find him. Just not here."

They back away together, towards the beach and the shoreline. There are no boats left, so they charge towards the castle.

"It had to be a trick of magic," James yells after Sirius, trying to make sense of what happened, trying to ground Sirius, calm him, calm them both if that's even possible.

Sirius doesn't respond; he just runs harder, though he's clearly running out of strength. Neither of them stops. They won't until they reach the dorm. Until they check the map. Or better... please better... until they find Remus and Peter already there.

The castle doors are open. The whole building hums with noise and movement, panic spilling inside. James and Sirius shoulder their way through the crowd. People are talking, crying, some stumbling from too much drink or too little sleep. First-years in nightgowns wander around, confused. The castle feels like it's unravelling at the seams.

They push up the staircase, floor by floor. They've nearly reached the sixth floor when a voice echoes through the stone walls.

"Every student must enter the Great Hall. Immediately."

It's Dumbledore's voice. It doesn't come from anywhere specifically; it feels like it's everywhere.

James and Sirius meet each other's eyes. And keep going.

"Every student must enter the Great Hall. Immediately." The message loops now, again and again, like a warning bell. Students are flooding down the stairs in waves.

Through the stream, James catches a glimpse of red hair. "LILY!"

She turns wide-eyed, trying to move against the crowd.

"JAMES! What happened?" she calls, but she's being pushed down with the rest of the Gryffindors.

"Have you seen Remus?" he shouts.

She just shakes her head, and then she's gone, swallowed by the mass of students.

"This can't be happening," Sirius murmurs as they reach the Fat Lady's portrait. She's already swung open, hanging wide.

They scramble through.

"Remus is okay," James says. "Remus is okay." If he says it enough, maybe it'll become true.

"Moony?" Sirius' voice breaks as they step into the common room.

James is right behind him and stops dead.

Remus and Peter are there, standing in the middle of the room. Peter is holding a book, which is surely their map in disguise. Remus and Peter lift their heads at the same time, and then Sirius crashes into Remus.

"Moony," he breathes, arms locking around him in a tight, desperate hug. He's holding on like he'll never let go.

Remus stumbles a little from the force of it, but he holds Sirius just as tightly.

James exhales sharply, all the tension rushing out of him like a popped balloon. His knees nearly give out. His chest aches.

They're okay.

They're okay.

They're okay.

"Sirius…" Remus rasps, and the sound of his voice grounds James back in the moment. He exhales sharply, like he's finally allowed to breathe. Then he's moving toward them, toward his people. He throws his arms around Sirius and Remus in one sweeping motion, reaching out to grab Peter by the arm and dragging him into the hug, too.

"Sirius... I can't breathe," Remus croaks out.

"Oh. Shit, sorry." Sirius stiffens and pulls back immediately. His hands come up to Remus's face, cupping his cheeks, eyes scanning him frantically for any sign of injury.

Remus inhales shakily, breath catching in his throat.

"It was so real," Sirius whispers like he still hasn't convinced himself this isn't just another trick. His fingers linger at Remus's jaw like if he lets go, Remus might disappear.

"I'm fine, Sirius," Remus says quietly. He takes a tiny step back. He's a little flustered, but so is Sirius.

Peter looks from Sirius and Remus to James and opens his mouth, but James beats him to it, "I'm sorry, Pete. Sorry that I lost you. I didn't mean to. I just..." He's searching for his pocket, and he pulls out what's left of his Fudge Flies, or they are not really his. He got them from Marlene, who got them from someone. He offers the box to Peter, and Peter's eyes light up.

"Fudge flies." He takes one and pops it to his mouth, "Thanks, Prongs."

James smiles back and clasps his friend on the shoulder.

"We should probably go to the Great Hall-- Sirius, what are you doing?" Remus asks, his voice a little too high.

Sirius has taken Remus's wrist in both hands and pressed it to his lips.

"What?" he says, completely unbothered. "Apparently, this is how you check someone's pulse."

Remus goes scarlet. His mouth opens, closes again. "Right. Okay. But-- um... you can see I'm alive, yeah?"

"Just wanted to be sure," Sirius says casually. "Pulse is very strong. Fast, even."

Remus yanks his hand back. "Okay, thank you, great. That's enough of that now."

"Anytime," Sirius says with a crooked smile, hands raised in surrender, but his eyes are still a little too wide, a little too desperate.

James lets out a breathy laugh. Finally, relief breaks through the adrenaline. "This is nothing, Moony; you should have seen him. He was like a feral animal."

Sirius shrugs, unbothered. "I am a feral animal."

Remus narrows his eyes at him. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"No," Sirius cuts in sharply, shooting a pointed glare at James. "We're not talking about it."

Remus raises an eyebrow and turns to James, who just shakes his head, lips pressed tight. It's better if Remus doesn't know. Not yet. Not until they understand what really happened in there.

Remus sighs, defeated. "Fine. Let's just go, then."

It's almost dawn. Pale, desperate rays of sunrise creep through the creaked window curtains. They're all sitting in a loose circle; Regulus, Evan, Barty, and Dorcas. Pandora is asleep in Evan's bed, curled up beneath one of his jumpers. Because of the chaos that the night was, they figured they would get away with the girls spending the night in their dorm.

"It has to be one of us," Dorcas says quietly. She's sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, chin resting on them. "Or an outsider. But the message was written in the entrance corridor. They had to have help from someone in the school."

There was another message. Magic is wasted on filth. Carved in blood, again.

Only this time, they know whose blood it was.

A Hufflepuff boy, found in the boathouse. Bleeding and unconscious.

That's all they've been told. That's all Dumbledore confirmed hours earlier in the Great Hall.

"A student was harmed. A message, written in blood, was left behind. The meaning of it is clear, and so is the intent: to instil division. To make some of you feel unworthy of your magic. I say to you now, that is a lie. Your magic is yours. It belongs to no bloodline, no name, and no prejudice."

"But this was not an accident. It is a pattern. Someone is trying to bring cruelty into our halls. Someone wants us to be afraid of each other."

Dumbledore's words still echo in Regulus' ears. He's surprised the headmaster didn't name Voldemort, as it is clear to every student in this school why this is happening. Everyone knows what's going on outside of the school walls. Everyone knows that darkness is clawing its way into the school, desperate to get in.

"It's got to be Wilkes and his lot," Dorcas says. She's the one who's done most of the talking since they returned to the dorm. The rest of them have just... been listening. Because there's not much they can say. Not with where they come from. Not with the demons that haunt them from home. Not with the lives that wait for them outside of these castle walls.

Regulus's heart is doing that thing again, beating too fast like it's trying to outrun his control. He can feel it slipping, and he hates that. He doesn't have his potion. He gave it to Remus Lupin in a moment of weakness, and now he's paying the price. He really needs to start getting his own cigarettes so he doesn't have to trade for them.

He knows he needs sleep. They all do. But for some reason, none of them have moved. They've just chosen to sit there in the heavy silence. Maybe because none of them could sleep anyway. It seems like everyone saw something on that beach.

Regulus is convinced it was a trick of dark magic. Someone, likely whoever targeted that Hufflepuff boy, was using something old and dangerous, and it went wrong. The air reacted. Because there were so many dead amongst them, so much charged old magic. But that's just his theory.

Still, it's ridiculous what his body is doing to him. It's like it's betraying him, like he's not in control. But he is . He's fine. Everyone he cares about is in this room. Everyone is safe. Well, everyone but that Hufflepuff boy. Shame for him; probably just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Regulus doesn't care about that Hufflepuff boy; he cares about his friends, and they are all okay. He is looking at them with his own eyes.

None of them look fine, though. They all look shaken and ragged. But Evan looks the worst. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, like he needs to be sure Pandora is still there, still breathing. Barty found him frantic on the beach and dragged him back to the castle. Evan had been looking at Pandora when the air had shifted, but he had refused to tell them what he had seen. How Pandora had died in front of him. No one knows what happened to her. Whether she saw something too. Whether she felt something. When Regulus found her, she was standing in the entrance hall like a ghost. She'd been murmuring about a stag and a garden, her voice distant and dreamy, like she wasn't quite in her own body.

None of it made any sense.

"But how are they doing it?" Dorcas whispers. "And that boy... he didn't die, right?"

No one answers. And that seems to snap something in Dorcas.

She huffs loudly, crosses her arms, and glares at them all. "Why am I the only one speaking here?" she snaps. "What's wrong with you guys?"

"What do you want us to say?" Evan asks, voice strained.

"That... that this is all wrong? That this is horrible, that... that no one in this school committed murder while we were all getting drunk?"

"If someone had to die, better him than any of you," Barty says flatly.

Exactly what Regulus was thinking.

"Barty!" Dorcas gasps, shock etched across her face. "You can't just say that!"

"What?" Barty meets her gaze, unmoved. "In an ideal world, no one dies, right? But we don't live in an ideal world, Dora. We live in a shitty one. People die all the time, and I'm not going to apologise for hoping it's not one of us."

Dorcas opens her mouth, then closes it. Swallows hard. They're all silent for a moment.

"No one should be dying," she says at last, barely more than a whisper.

"We don't know if he died," Regulus says. Dorcas turns to him, eyes wide with something raw and aching. It twists something inside Regulus. He hates seeing her like this, but he doesn't know what to say. There is nothing for him to say that would make her feel better.

"Please just..." Dorcas says quietly, holding Regulus' gaze, "Promise me you guys won't get involved."

Regulus stares back at her, unblinking. "Don't ask us--"

"No!" she cuts him off sharply. "Stop that. Just... don't. We're barely sixteen. We can't... this can't be our future. It just can't."

"We didn't choose our families," Evan mumbles. He glances over his shoulder again. Pandora is still there. Asleep.

Dorcas buries her face into her hands, "I know." She whispers. "It's just not fair."

"War is never fair." Regulus mumbles.

Dorcas looks up, eyes glassy. "So what? You guys just chose them?"

Regulus shifts a little; this is not a conversation he wants to have with his friends. They shouldn't talk about it. There is nothing to say. Some things should be kept unsaid, and this is one of them. They all know where they come from; they all know what waits for them. Dorcas is being naive, acting like they have a choice.

Even Barty. His dad is climbing the ranks in the Ministry, loudly speaking out against Voldemort. But he's not doing it out of the goodness of his heart. No, he wants the title. He wants to be Minister of Magic. Barty told Regulus that years ago. Said his father would stop at nothing to get it, and now he's seen an opening. Barty's told enough stories about the man for Regulus to know he isn't a good person. No, he's running Walburga for her money. Barty Crouch Senior is a dead man walking. He's on Regulus' long list of names, the ones he plans to get revenge on someday.

Barty is doing everything in his power to go against his father, and Regulus is scared for him. Scared that Barty will brand himself out of spite. He doesn't understand that once it's done, it's done. There is no coming back. Regulus should know.

Maybe it's hypocritical of him to hope his friends won't do it. To hope that if he takes the Mark, it will somehow protect them. It's a childish thought. He knows that. But not all of them have to suffer.

Regulus, however, has no choice. This is the path that was chosen for him. There is no going back. No choice for him anymore.

Not that he ever really had a choice.

"We shouldn't talk about this," Regulus says flatly, getting to his feet.

Dorcas is still staring at him, "Why?" She asks. "Because you already chose them? Because you are one of them? Reg, please... just say you're not."

Regulus meets her gaze but doesn't blink. "Don't ask questions you don't want answers to," he mutters.

"Wait... wait a second." Barty staggers to his feet now, too, suddenly alert. "Are you... Are you with them already?"

There's actual worry on his face. But it vanishes quickly, replaced by something close to awe.

"But they don't take anyone before they're of age--"

"How do you know that?" Dorcas snaps. Barty ignores her, stepping closer to Regulus.

"Did they give it to you?" he asks, voice low. His nostrils flare.

Regulus meets his friend's dark green eyes. He told Barty what this path looked like when they were eleven before they knew how far it would really go. Barty knows what Regulus' family is like. He knows more than anyone else in this room. And still, Regulus feels a sharp, cold twist in his chest at the look on Barty's face now. The shock. The disbelief. The jealousy. Because when they were eleven and stupid, they vowed they'd do it together, whatever twisted paths their parents would throw their way, they'd face it together. It was pathetic. A child's dream to not have to be alone. But this is something Regulus has to do alone.

He narrows his eyes. "No," he says smoothly, effortlessly. He's had years to practice. Lying is second nature now. And technically, he is not lying. But it's not like the path he is on is to fight for the good. He is going to wash blood from his hands soon enough. It is all for that one goal.  

Barty doesn't believe him. "Show me." He whispers, now staring at Regulus' left arm like he could see through the shirt.

"No." Regulus draws it out, slow and sharp.

Barty's eyes flicker with hesitation, then a flash of fury. Regulus sees it in the way his hand twitches, as if he wants to grab Regulus, rip the sleeve up, and make him admit it. But he doesn't. Because they know each other too well. And Barty knows Regulus would never forgive that kind of violence. Not from him.

"Fine," Barty says, rolling his shoulders. He looks at Regulus like he's betrayed him and then walks over to his bed, throwing himself on it without another word.

The silence that follows isn't quiet. It's a ringing, hollow thing that sits behind Regulus' ribs.

Dorcas is still standing there, her eyes too wide, too soft for this world. "Reg…" she whispers, moving toward him. Her voice cracks, and it cuts deeper than Barty's anger ever could. "We can find a way. All of us. We don't have to do this."

She's pleading now. "Just because of our parents… because of everything we were born into… it doesn't mean we have to become them."

Regulus wants to believe her. He really, truly does. But it's not that simple.

"We don't all get to choose," he mutters, eyes flicking to Evan, who's been oddly quiet through the whole thing. Evan says nothing, and before Dorcas can say anything else, anything that's kind and hopeful and utterly useless, Regulus turns around and walks out the door.

Soon, he is climbing up the spiral staircase towards the Astronomy Tower. He knows it's too late for the stars; dawn is nearly here, but he doesn't need to see them. He knows them by heart. Each name, each coordinate, etched into his mind like scripture. Sometimes, he recites them when he can't breathe properly. Right now, he's desperate for that kind of control.

The breeze meets him before the sky does, cool and clean, and for a second, it feels like a relief.

But then, at the top step, he halts. His body freezes.

"You have to be fucking kidding me."

The words escape before he can stop them, too sharp, too loud, and James Potter turns.

Of course, it's him.

He looks like devastating chaos brought to life. His hair is wild and windswept; his sleeves are rolled up unevenly, his forearms bare, his knuckles red like he's been gripping something too tightly. There's morning light catching on the smudged lens of his glasses, turning the edges of him gold.

He looks like a warrior. Like the kind who doesn't even know he's already won. Then, in the blink of an eye, James Potter is moving, striding toward him with fire in his eyes. Regulus doesn't react. He is too stunned to do anything but stare.

James looks furious, like Regulus has done something, and James is going to make him pay for it. He grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him off the ground like he weighs nothing. For one dizzying second, Regulus thinks Potter is going to throw him over the edge of the tower. Instead, his back slams against cold stone, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. James presses an arm across his chest, and Regulus' breath hitches involuntarily.

James is close. And he is angry, truly, blisteringly angry with him.

And that... well.

Oh.

Fuck.

"What the fuck happened on that beach?" James snarls.

His skin is smooth. Regulus has never noticed that before. And there are freckles, soft, almost invisible, scattered across the bridge of his nose. They look… delicious. Slazar's soggy socks. Regulus needs to get his head checked. He snaps himself out of it by reaching for his wand and pressing it against James' ribs. Potter doesn't even flinch, though; he presses Regulus harder against the wall.

"It was you lot, wasn't it?" James grits out. "Because who else would it fucking be?"

His voice is low and rough. It does something to Regulus, something he refuses to name.

"You need to stop thinking all Slytherins act as one fucking team," Regulus bites out.

It should be obvious to anyone with half a brain that Slytherins aren't like the other houses. They don't pretend to like each other for the sake of some greater good or whatever bleeding-heart nonsense the others go on about. They strive for greatness, no matter the cost. Sure, loyalty exists, but it's reserved for a chosen few, not handed out just because someone shares your house crest. That kind of blind allegiance the Gryffindors parade around? It's pathetic.

"I was with you, you fucking git," Regulus snaps. He doesn't know why he's explaining himself to James Potter, of all people. Regulus doesn't owe him anything. Frankly, he wouldn't care if James thought he'd murdered the Hufflepuff boy with his bare hands.

And yet. Here they are.

"Did you see me performing some dark magic ritual in front of you? Hm?"

James blinks, clearly registering the words. Then his nostrils flare. "How do you know it was dark magic?"

Regulus rolls his eyes. "Because I own brain cells. Unlike you."

James huffs a laugh. It's sharp, breathless, disbelieving. But he doesn't let go.

He's still got Regulus pinned to the wall, one arm braced beside his head, the other pressing against his chest. His eyes flick over Regulus' face, searching for what? Regulus doesn't know. Guilt? Fear? A confession? It gives Regulus an opening. To bite back.

"Why are you behaving like you have been chosen to avenge this boy? Like this is some mystery you, personally, need to solve?"

James frowns. He opens his mouth and then closes it again. His grip on Regulus loosens slightly, and only then does Regulus realise how shallow his breathing had become. Only because of the pressure on his chest, of course. Not for any other reason.

"Someone could've died today," James says quietly.

Regulus rolls his eyes. "Yes, I've heard."

"You don't care," James replies. Not a question. A statement.

"Why should I?" Regulus mutters. He pushes James back, just enough to put some space between them. Enough to breathe again without inhaling pine, cinnamon, and something that stupidly smells like freshly peeled oranges.

"Because no one deserves to die," James says.

Regulus almost laughs. Potter can't be serious. He doesn't even indicate him with an answer because, of course, James Potter is that naive. Of course, he lives in a little fantasy world where there is a clear line between good and bad, and the good wins every time. Like it's all black and white. Simple. No blurred lines.

"Why are you always like this?" James asks then, staring Regulus in the eye. It's intense, and Regulus doesn't like it, but he can't look away. He's staring at James right back. There is more distance between them now, but he can still see his eyes clearly. They are like pools of honey, soft and warm.

Sticky.

Honey is sticky.

Regulus doesn't even like it. He doesn't like honey, and he hates James Potter. He reminds himself. Forcing himself to snap out of it. What the fuck is happening to him?

"Like you are performing." James continues.

Regulus's jaw tightens. "I'm not performing."

"You are," James insists. "You act like you don't care. But I know you do. I know what happened that--"

"No." Regulus lifts a hand sharply. James is not going there. Regulus won't allow it. "Stop right there, Potter."

James doesn't stop. "I know you care."

Regulus steps forward, venom threading through every word now. "I don't care. Not about the Hufflepuff. Not about anyone in this school."

James doesn't flinch. Doesn't step back. They are closer again, and it's Regulus' own fault. But he needs to make this clear.

"You think I'm some version of your best friend? Another project to fix with your misplaced Gryffindor morals?"

He leans in to finish it off. "I'm not my brother, Potter. I never was. And whatever it is you think you see in me. It's not there."

"I know what happened that night," James repeats, eyes flashing. "I saw it."

Regulus' stomach twists. This is not a memory he wants to visit. Ever. For a second he considers obliviating James there and then.

"I don't know what you are talking about, Potter." He snarls instead.

"Yes, you do." James snarls right back.  

"No, I don't," Regulus repeats. He rolls his shoulders and glares at Potter one last time before he's gone.

Chapter Text

"Should we sneak into Hogsmeade? Madam Rosmerta would surely fix us up with something... You know, to wash this headache away," Sirius says. He's lying on the dormitory floor, legs hooked up on his bed.

James is stretched out beside him, lazily levitating Remus's books with his wand.

"Yeah, but that would mean we'd have to get up," James mumbles.

"You're right. What was I thinking?" Sirius says. "I'm not moving from this spot ever. It's my new home. Quite comfy, actually."

"Is it?" James turns his head slowly, just in time to catch Sirius grinning.

"No."

James lets out a laugh and then immediately winces. "Don't make me laugh. Not. Allowed."

"Ah, right, no laughter with a headache. Forgot that one," Sirius grins.

"Ha ha. I'll tickle you next; let's see how your head handles that."

Sirius squeezes his eyes shut like the mere suggestion is enough to make his skull implode. "Don't even joke about that right now, Prongs."

James sticks out his tongue.

Then there is silence. For a long while.

The only sound is the gentle thud of the books as they return to their rightful places with a flick of James' wand.

Then Sirius turns to look at James, his eyes wide in that Sirius way that means there is something on his mind.

James waits. He's learned not to push. With Sirius, there has to be space. He'll talk when he's ready. He won't if he's being pressured.

So James levitates another book. Waits.

Then Sirius huffs. "You can't ever tell Remus what I said on that beach."

James frowns but nods.

"I was clearly fucking sloshed," Sirius adds.

"It wasn't just you," James says. "It was all of us. Someone was messing around with dark magic, and we all paid the price."

Sirius turns his gaze back to the ceiling. "I can't stop seeing it, you know?"

James swallows and nods. He can't stop seeing it, either. Regulus choking on the water, life draining from his eyes. James hasn't told Sirius about that. He just can't get himself to tell. It's like the words are stuck in his throat.

"Every time I look at Moony, I see it. The flash of green light. Fuck, it felt so real."

"But it wasn't," James whispers. "And… not that it's a comforting thought, but everyone who was on that beach, who was near someone, saw something. That's why the chaos erupted."

Dumbledore had tried to assure them that what happened on the beach was just a trick of magic. But for some reason, James feels like it's not the entire truth. James thinks it's connected to the Hufflepuff boy somehow. That another message on the wall. They are all connected somehow.

Breakfast had been unnervingly quiet this morning. The Great Hall, which is usually full of noise and laughter, had felt cold and solemn. Everyone was still shaken.

Since nearly half the school had been on that beach, Dumbledore couldn't very well give out detentions. Instead, he'd come to an agreement with the house ghosts: the tradition was over. Anyone caught sneaking off the school grounds would face weeks of detention. Parties are not allowed like they ever were. But after this, James thinks not many want to risk gathering like that again. Which is bullshit, really. Because that's exactly what Voldemort wants. He wants to spread fear, isolation and division. And it's working.

"But we had fun before all that, yeah?" James says, glancing at Sirius again. He's been waiting to bring this up all morning, but didn't want to do it in front of Remus. Now that it's just the two of them, it's his chance to see what Sirius remembers. James, at least, hadn't been drunk enough to forget.

"We did." A grin spreads on Sirius' face, "I was making out with that blonde girl."

"Oh, don't worry, everyone saw that." James grins back. "I was watching the show with Moony."

He plants it there, Remus' name, casual, offhand.

Sure enough, Sirius turns to him, frowning slightly.

"I didn't see much of Moony," he mutters, clearly digging through the haze of his memory. "Just remember him talking to that knobhead."

James bites back a laugh; his head can't handle it. It's the kind of hangover that makes him swear off drinking forever. Until the next party.

"So he's still a knobhead, then?"

"Obviously," Sirius mutters.

"You know, I told you last night, and I'll tell you again. Remus is allowed to talk to people who aren't us." James says softly.

Sirius scoffs. "Of course he is."

But his voice is a little too sharp. He's pulled his wand from where it was tucked in his hair and is now twirling it between his fingers, a nervous habit of his.

James doesn't say anything. He just watches as Sirius keeps twirling his wand. The rhythm is a little too fast, like he doesn't even realise he's doing it. James watches him for a second longer, then looks away, giving him the out he knows Sirius wants.

"Moony didn't seem too bothered by him," James says. "They just talked. Nothing dramatic."

"Still. He could do better," Sirius mutters.

James hums in agreement. "Always could."

Then there is silence again.

"You said something else last night, too," James says after a while, soft and nonchalant.

Sirius tenses, doesn't look at him. "I was drunk."

"Yeah," James says, smiling faintly. "You were."

Sirius exhales through his nose, wand slowing in his fingers. "I don't remember," he says.

James lets it hang between them for a second. Then he nods. "Fair enough."

Sirius lets it drop. Doesn't ask what he said to James; he just shifts slightly on the floor, like something inside him itches.

James takes a breath. He is going to change the subject into something more uncomfortable, but he has to tell Sirius. Otherwise, he feels like he is lying to his best friend. This is part of the last night he needs to tell. "I ran into Regulus last night."

Sirius' mouth forms a silent "oh," his body going rigid, shoulders locking.

James rushes to clarify, "At the Astronomy Tower." He doesn't need to explain to Sirius why he was there. Sirius knows.

Sirius nods stiffly, jaw grinding. "What did he want?"

"I think he just wanted to be there, but I had beaten him to it," James says.

Sirius nods again curtly. He doesn't seem too surprised that Regulus was at the Astronomy Tower.

"I don't think he was involved with what happened", James adds.

"Really?" Sirius mumbles, and though he is trying to hide it, James can hear the slight, subtle twist in his tone. The hope. "Why? Did you ask him or something?"

James pushes a hand through his hair, exhaling. "Yeah. Kind of. I think I was still drunk, and all the adrenaline had burned off. I just... confronted him."

Sirius lets out a low, humourless huff. "Bet he loved that."

"Yep." James half-smiles. "I called him out. Said he was performing."

"You what?" Sirius' head snaps to James, eyes wide.

James shrugs, too tired to regret it. "Don't worry. He made it very clear he's not you."

Sirius scoffs. "No. He isn't." His voice is sharp; the bitterness is there again. "Don't waste your time on him, James. Doesn't matter if it's a performance or not. He's chosen his side."

James doesn't say anything because bloody hell did he wish he could just stop. Stop thinking about Regulus Black altogether. But he can't. And last night definitely didn't help. He doesn't know what came over him, why he was pressing Regulus against the wall, trying to get some kind of confession out of him. He knew Regulus wouldn't, but he just... he snapped, and then Regulus snapped right back, and James felt like he was losing. Like this is a game between them, and every time he loses. Because Regulus always gets under his skin, and then suddenly James has no thoughts but Regulus' utterly devastating jawline and how much he wants to kiss it.

He swallows hard. His cheeks are burning.

Fuck.

He forces a breath in. Calm down. He tells himself. Sirius is right next to him, and he would actually gut James then and there if he knew James was thinking about his little brother like this.

As if summoned by the sheer weight of James' guilt, Remus walks through the door. Perfect timing. Cutting off James' thoughts before they could get truly unholy.

"Hey," he says, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

The door clicks shut a little too loudly, and Sirius flinches. "Ow, Moony, must you slam things like that? We're delicate."

Remus raises an unimpressed brow. "If it isn't the consequences of your own actions, Pads."

"No, no," Sirius mutters. "Not my fault. If everyone's getting drunk and having fun, it's rude not to join in."

"Ah, so everyone's fault but yours."

"Precisely." Sirius smirks.

Remus rolls his eyes but drops down beside them, tugging something from his coat pocket. A rich, sweet scent wafts through the air as he unwraps it. James catches honey, warm toast, maybe cinnamon.

"I brought you some honey toast," Remus says casually, holding out a bit of paper with a small sticky pile of golden slices.

"You're a bloody saint," Sirius breathes, reaching for one and immediately licking the thick layer of honey off the top.

Remus smiles softly, offering a slice to James as well. "Thank you, Moony. What would we do without you?" James says while biting into his toast, savouring the honey.

"No news about Milo Gracedew," Remus says then.

"Who--" Sirius mumbles, his mouth full of toast.

Remus shoots him a sharp look, "The Hufflepuff boy whose blood was on the walls?"

Sirius looks ashamed then and just nods, letting Remus go on, "Marlene told me that he is still unconscious. Whoever did something to him most likely tried to obliviate him afterwards, but it went wrong. They can't tell for sure before he wakes up."

James shakes his head, staring down at his toast. "I wish I'd noticed something. Heard something. I could've helped."

"It's not your fault, James," Remus says gently. "We were all at that party. No one noticed anything was wrong until it was too late. At least he's still alive."

"We really should do something," Sirius mumbles. "If the war's creeping into Hogwarts, the Order has to start bending the rules. They'll need people inside."

James perks up, nodding. "I could write to my dad. Or maybe to Frank. He might be able to help us in."

Sirius' eyes light up. "Yes! Frank! Let's write to him."

Remus just nods but doesn't say anything.

James finishes off his toast, mouth full, waving his hand in the air. "Oi, I know! What about the new DADA professor? He is clearly in the Order or at least on our side."

"Fuck yeah, Prongs." Sirius high-fives him awkwardly from the floor. "We can do that after our next lesson. Right Moony? You'll want to help, too, right?"

Remus looks down at the small sticky pile of toast still in his hands. "Yeah. If they'll let me."

There's a sudden fire in Sirius' eyes. He pushes himself upright, wincing as his head protests, eyes squeezed shut against the unmistakable throb.

"Moony," he says, softer than James has ever heard him speak to anyone, "Moony, please listen to me, okay? You're the most brilliant wizard in our year... Merlin, in the whole school. No one works like you do. No one cares like you do. You're golden, Remus. Fucking golden. You hear me?"

Remus' face flushes deep red. He bites his lip, swallows hard, and after a long pause, he just nods. "Sure. Thanks, Pads," he manages to whisper.

Sirius looks like he wants to cup Remus' face in both hands and hold him there until he believes him, but instead, he just rests a hand on Remus' thigh. James catches the faintest flicker of tension in Remus' shoulder, and honestly, he's in awe. The restraint his friend must have because Sirius's hand is just... right there.

"You're fucking golden, Remus Lupin," Sirius says again, firmer this time. Like a vow.

Remus gives him a small, crooked smile. "Thanks, Sirius." Then, clearly trying to steer the conversation elsewhere, he lifts the little pile of toast. "More toast?" he asks, voice soft and a little broken.

Sirius folds instantly, reaching for another slice. "How does this actually help?" he mutters around a bite.

Remus shrugs, lips twitching. "Something about the sugar."

"Hm." Sirius nods slowly, chewing, eyes still fixed on Remus. Remus stares right back, and James...

Well, James feels like he shouldn't be there.

He turns to look at the door; now, this would be the perfect moment for Peter to walk in.

If James could, he would literally disappear into the thin air and give his friends this moment, but he is there. Very much there. Present. Flesh and bone. And Remus and Sirius are just staring at each other. James feels like he should maybe cough to remind them that, hey, I'm here too , but also , it feels too wrong to interrupt whatever silent conversation they are having with their eyes.

So instead, James reaches for a piece of toast from Moony's neat little pile. Remus doesn't seem to notice, so James takes a bite. Crunch.

Two heads snap toward him.

Remus blinks and inhales sharply like he's grounding himself back in the present. James just smiles sweetly at them both, then takes another exaggerated bite and crunches even louder.

"This is some good toast," he nods.

Right on cue, the door swings open and Peter stumbles in, soaked to the bone.

"Hey, guys," he huffs, clearly frustrated as he peels off his wet cloak and hangs it by the door.

"Did you take a dip in the lake, or...?" Sirius grins.

"No," Peter mutters, "Peeves happened."

"Here, let me help," Remus says, flicking his wand. A stream of warm air blasts toward Peter, who exhales in relief.

"Thanks, Moony."

"So what was he doing this time?" James asks, still munching.

Peter scowls. "He was hiding behind the barrels near the Hufflepuff common room, chucking water bombs at everyone trying to get in."

"What were you doing by the Hufflepuff common room...?" Sirius smirks.

Peter's face goes pink. He waves his hand vaguely. "Just… talking about Betty with Sylvie."

Sirius whistles. "Charming a girl by talking about another girl. That's a skill, Pete."

James laughs. "Not everyone can pull that off."

"Betty is my--"

"--Your plant," James cuts in with a grin. "We know, Pete. We know." He winks.

Peter shakes his head, cheeks still flushed, as he crosses the room to his bed, which is surrounded by an army of potted plants.

"Anyway, the Puffs are really shaken by what happened to Milo."

"Everyone is," Remus says quietly. "The castle's been so quiet today."

"We should do something about it," Sirius says.

James looks at him. A smirk curls on his lips as they exchange a glance. They're thinking the same thing.

"No," Remus says flatly. "I know what you guys are thinking. No."

Sirius turns to him with wide, pleading eyes. "Come on, Moony. I know you want to." He bats his lashes and leans in closer.

Remus takes a slow breath and just stares at Sirius, clearly battling with his will in this situation. But James already knows how this ends. Remus John Lupin does not know how to say no to Sirius Orion Black.

"We'll get caught," Remus mumbles.

"It's worth it," Sirius whispers, fluttering his lashes again.

Remus exhales, looks away, and sighs. "Fine."

Sirius yelps with excitement and leaps off the floor, only to stagger backwards immediately. "Shit, I forgot I've got a headache…" he mutters, rubbing his temples.

James laughs and stands, too, though much more cautiously. Delicate movements. Very delicate, he reminds himself.

"Okay, Peter, come on, let's go." James waves at Peter, who is attending to his plants.

Peter looks up, one eyebrow raised. "I don't get a say in this?"

"No," Remus says firmly, shooting him a pointed look. "If I have to go, you have to come too."

Peter groans, exasperated. "But I really don't want detention this time. It's our last year. I'd like to make it through at least one term without scrubbing cauldrons with Filch."

"And because it's our last year," Sirius cuts in, dramatically throwing the dorm door open, "we need to do all the things we haven't done yet. And this is one of them."

"Can't believe it's our last year," James murmurs, grabbing the Invisibility Cloak from his trunk.

"Yeah… what happens to us when we graduate?" Remus asks quietly, tugging the map from between the pages of a book and unfolding it.

"Let's not talk about that now, shall we?" Sirius says from the doorway, shifting on his feet like the thought makes him restless. "We've got months left."

Remus glances up at him, eyes lingering. Then he nods, "Yeah…" he mumbles, looking back down at the map.

James watches the two of them, resisting the urge to knock their foreheads together. Merlin, his friends are so thick. Why can't they just figure it out already?

"Peeves is still in the dungeons. Filch is on the fifth floor with Mrs. Norris," Remus reports, eyes scanning the map.

"Perfect," Sirius smirks, patting his pocket. "Come on, Pete."

Peter sighs but doesn't argue. Instead, he does what he always does: takes his Animagus form and slips into Sirius' pocket. He's so tiny, he fits anywhere.

They'd solved the cloak problem that way; not all four of them fit under it anymore, so Peter became pocket-sized, Remus relied on his prefect badge to get away with wandering alone, and James and Sirius used the cloak.

James swings it over their heads, and just like that, they're off. Bringing to life a plan they've talked about for years.

It's the middle of the night, and Regulus is sitting in his little passageway, not sleeping, but who is surprised? When does he ever sleep these days? He is scribbling down in his notebook, making small, neat lists of all the ingredients he will need, where he can find them and what he needs to prepare. It's coming together. His plan.

So why does it feel like he can't breathe?

He looks around the narrow passageway; the stone walls are too close, and the ceiling is too low. He swallows and tells himself it's the air. It must be. The passageway is sealed, with no windows and no breeze. That's the problem. That has to be the problem.

Regulus shifts, rests his forehead against the cool stone, and exhales slowly, carefully. His lungs feel tight. He'll find a new place to hide soon. One with a window. With air. That will fix it.

Because it's the passageway. Of course, it is.

What else could it possibly be?

He glances at the notebook again. Still no Veilvine. But he knows he will get it eventually. He's sent owls to half the shops in Knockturn Alley; someone must stock it. It can't be that rare. He's almost certain it blooms somewhere on the school grounds too , but since the bloody plant only shows itself under a full moon, he needs to first figure out where to look.

He needs to move on for now. The other ingredients won't gather themselves, and Slughorn is next on his list. That part will be easy: a bit of flattery, some light tidying after class, and a mention of the Black family name and Slughorn will be practically purring in front of him.

Regulus stands, brushes the dust off his trousers, and tucks the notebook into his pocket. He slips out of the passageway and locks eyes with the portrait's mermaid again. She's been giving him that look lately, like she knows something he doesn't. He says nothing, just swings the passage shut and heads toward the dungeons. Morning is close, and he should at least try to close his eyes for a while.

He likes the castle at night. It's quiet. Still. His.

Of course, the second he thinks that he hears soft paws tapping down the corridor.

Collar tingles gently; it's Mrs Norris. Regulus curses under his breath. He's in the middle of the corridor. No shadows, no cover. He doesn't have time for a detention. Absolutely not. He yanks the nearest door open and slips into a tiny broom cupboard. He exhales through his nose, arms folded, and tilts his head back to count the seconds until it's safe again.

Then the door creaks open.

Regulus wants to pull out his dagger and end it there and then, as the cupboard is filled with fresh oranges, cinnamon and pure idiocy.

"No." Regulus hisses. "This is occupied. Fuck off, Potter." He is pushing James Potter from the back as the boy is yanking the door shut.

"What the--" James yelps as he stumbles from Regulus' push, knocking over several brooms in the process.

"You idiot!" Regulus hisses.

"You pushed me!" James hisses back, flailing for balance in the dark.

"I was here first!"

"You don't own this cupboard!"

"Here, you say, my sweet?" comes Filch's voice from the hallway, low and curious.

They both whip out their wands.

"Colloportus," Regulus snaps, sealing the door.

"Muffliato," James mutters in sync, pointing his wand at the crack beneath it.

James whirls around, facing Regulus. "What are you doing here?" He seeths.

Is he angry? Again?

No. Regulus can't take angry James Potter. Not in this small, cramped space. It does things to him, the way he talks like that. Regulus doesn't even want to begin to think how wrong it is to be attracted to James Potter. Because it is. Wrong. In so many ways.

Regulus forces a scoff. Rolls his eyes. "Just fancied a moonlit stroll." He shifts backwards, trying to reclaim space that doesn't exist. His back hits the shelves with a soft thud.

James cocks his head. "I didn't know you were romantic like--"

Filch tries to yank the door handle. The door rattles. James steps away from it. Closer to Regulus. Regulus instinctively tries to back away again, but there's nowhere to go.

"Hmm, my sweet, this is curious. We don't lock the cupboards, do we?"

Filch muses, and the handle rattles again.

"Shit..." James breathes.

Regulus is staring at the hollow of his throat. The way a curl falls against it. The sharp edge of his collarbone under his shirt.

It would be so easy to lean in.

"I thought you didn't mind getting in trouble, Potter," he murmurs, voice barely a whisper.

"I can't get caught tonight," James says quietly.

"Why?"

"Because..." James says, turning his face toward Regulus fully now. "I just can't."

"Ah, what an explanation." Regulus murmurs.

James's lips twitch, "I don't owe you an explanation."

"You barged into my cupboard." Regulus huffs. "You bloody stalker."

"Oi!" James yelps, "How was I supposed to know you would be lurking here in the middle of the night?"

Regulus shrugs, and the door rattles again.

"Thought so," James mutters, but he doesn't move. He stays where he is, annoyingly still and impossibly close. So close, Regulus can feel the warmth radiating off him in waves, making it hard to think, let alone breathe.

Why is James Potter doing this to him?

It's not fair.

"Looks like we're going to be here for a while," James says quietly.

Regulus doesn't reply. He looks away and tilts his head up to the ceiling. The stone's old, cracked, and veined with cobwebs in the corners. He focuses on that. Anything but the boy standing right in front of him.

"Regulus?" James's voice is a whisper. Too soft, too careful. And fuck, it hits something inside Regulus. His head snaps back to Potter.

James is watching him. Eyes wide, questioning, burning just enough that Regulus starts to doubt reality. It looks like lust. It can't be. But it looks like it.

No. No, no, no. James Potter doesn't like boys. Let alone him. Regulus is tired. Sleep-deprived. Imagining things. Hallucinating in the bloody broom cupboard.

"Don't call me that," Regulus whispers.

"Why not?" James asks, brow furrowing.

"Only my friends call me that."

"And I'm not your friend," James says quietly.

Regulus nods. "Not even close."

"Never," James echoes.

The door rattles again. Regulus can hear keys jingling and someone muffling, but he is unable to pay attention to it. His eyes and focus are solely locked on James.

"I don't care, remember?" Regulus mumbles.

"I remember," James says.

"I hate you. You hate me." Regulus presses like he needs them both to say it out loud.

James nods once. His eyes flick over Regulus' face, and Regulus can feel his breath, warm and unsteady, brushing his cheek.

"You hate me," James repeats, whispering it like it's a confession.

"Yes," Regulus murmurs, barely audible. "I hate you."

It should end there.

It should.

But it doesn't.

Because neither of them moves.

And Regulus is aware -- painfully, humiliatingly aware -- of the heat pulsing low in his stomach, the way his heart is hammering in his chest, how his hands have curled into fists at his sides just to stop himself from shaking.

James shifts slightly, and it's enough for his knee to brush Regulus'.

Regulus freezes. His breath catches.

Salazar, please don't let him notice.

James leans in just a fraction, eyes dipping to Regulus' lips. Just a flicker. Barely a twitch. But Regulus sees it. Feels it. And then it's like the air gets sucked from the cupboard. The walls are too tight, the silence too loud, and James Potter is too close.

Regulus' willpower crumbles, just for a second.

For a second, he thinks, what would it be like to kiss James Potter.

He lets himself think it. Really think it.

To taste those lips.

To reach up, fist his hand in that ridiculously soft hair, and just give in.

No one can see him here. No one can hear his thoughts. They're his alone. He allows himself this moment of relapse. Just a moment.

Regulus is weak. So very weak, he realises. Because he has known James Potter for years. Watched him strut around the school like he owned it. And he has loathed him. Always loathed him. And now, it has taken a month for James Potter to penetrate Regulus' thoughts. A month. James Potter and his bare chest. That bloody bare chest he had to see on his first day back. It ruined everything. It ruined Regulus.

And it's infuriating.

Anger rises hot and sharp in his throat. Frustration coils low in his stomach, ugly and aching. None of this is helping. Not the silence. Not James. Not this stupid cupboard.

James exhales. It's unsteady and shallow. His gaze lingers on Regulus' face like it's something delicate. "You've got…" he starts, then clears his throat. "Something. Dust, maybe. On your cheek." He lifts his hand, reaching up like he's going to brush something from Regulus' cheek. His fingers don't even make contact; they just hover.

That's when Regulus snaps.

Like ice cracking under pressure.

He jerks back, his back colliding with the shelf behind him. A sharp clatter fills the cupboard as cleaning supplies tumble to the floor.

"Don't," Regulus says sharply.

James blinks, flinching at the loud noises. "What?"

"Don't do that." Regulus snaps. He stares at the stone wall over James' shoulder. Anywhere but him. "Don't touch me. Potter."

" I' -- I wasn't..." James stammers, faltering into silence.

Regulus swallows hard. His skin is too hot. His trousers feel too tight. He hates himself. He hates James. He hates this cupboard.

He straightens his spine, collecting what's left of his composure. "This is stupid."

He pushes past James and wrenches the door open. Cool, damp air rushes in. He feels like he can breathe again.

There is no sign of Filch or the cat. Regulus has no idea how long they were there for, but he can see the sun rising from the window. He steps out of the cupboard. Doesn't look back. And walks away.

Chapter Text

It's been a week since the thing happened that Regulus doesn't think about. He's good at that. Not thinking about it. His mind never slips. Obviously. Never.

The castle has returned to its usual rhythm after the chaos at the Gloaming Feast. The Hufflepuff boy didn't die. But his memory was clearly tampered with, not entirely successfully, though, as he is still in the Hospital Wing, unable to recall what really happened to him. Regulus can't believe there are idiots in this school, in his house, that can't execute memory charms successfully. But it's none of Regulus' business, really. Whatever those idiots are doing to try to get the Dark Lord's attention... Regulus doesn't care.

His own plan, however, is back on track. Nothing is distracting him anymore. Since he is not thinking about what happened that he isn't supposed to be thinking about, he is focusing on his plan. He has to execute it. He doesn't have a choice. That's the thing.

He's started to flatter Slughorn. It's going well. The man is ridiculously simple. A couple days ago, Regulus gifted him an antique pin he claimed belonged to a Black ancestor. He'd taken it from Walburga's collection one summer; no doubt it's worth a small fortune, which only added to the allure. Slughorn, of course, is eating it up. He's obsessed with old families, powerful names, and glittering legacies. Regulus has also begun planting the idea that he's researching new magical properties of Widow's Tongue. Regulus should have access to Slughorn's restricted stash in no time. The ones locked behind a magically bound cabinet that only opens when Slughorn himself touches the key. Regulus had already tried to break through it with every unlocking charm he knew. No luck. This is the only way.

Now that Regulus' plan is on track, he has time to look into the restricted section, as it still bothers him. How it became restricted. Why did it become restricted? Because he knows from Hogwarts: A History that it wasn't always sealed with magic.

So why is it now?

When Regulus broke in last month, he barely had time to skim through the titles. He was too busy looking for that one specific book. But now that he has that book secured... well, he could break back in there again just to take another look around. He could find something else from there, too.

Regulus doesn't know why he is so interested in the Restricted section. Something in him just wants to know why.

So here he is again, tucked into the uppermost row of the library's west wing, an alcove reachable only by climbing a particular set of wooden ladders near the herbology books. No one ever goes there. It's quiet, dusty, and private.

He's been combing through old library records, trying to pinpoint when the Restricted Section changed. But there are records from decades and decades. Regulus has already read through the records from Dumbledore's headmaster time, and he found nothing. This doesn't add up because he is sure he heard Pince once say the magic was requested by Dumbledore. So now he is going through the records when their headmaster was still a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.

There are numerous records of new book additions and the removal of outdated books. Books that have gone missing. And then finally.

A dated entry. Circa 1944.

A marginal note written in tight, spidery handwriting: "Certain texts moved to Restricted Section per Professor Dumbledore's request. Access only via explicit faculty permission. Protective enchantments added."

Regulus stares at the note.

Why? Which books? Why can't it just tell him that? Why must everything be so complicated? Regulus is itching to know. What was so horrible that it had to be sealed with magic?

"So this is where you linger, clever Slytherin."

Regulus's head snaps up. Floating just beyond the bookcase is Helena Ravenclaw.

Regulus nods slowly, "No one ever uses the west wing of the library. It's peaceful out here."

Helena lifts her chin, clearly annoyed at that, "This wing contains all the records of Hogwarts' history."

"I know," Regulus says calmly, fingers tapping against the open page in front of him. "I'm actually reading about it."

There is a slight shift in her expression: curiosity, faint approval.

"And there is this entry that confuses me." He looks up at her, brows furrowed in carefully curated confusion. "Do you know what happened in 1944?"

Helena stiffens. It's immediate, shoulders drawing in, her form flickering faintly. She gasps, mouth parting, then closing again. Her eyes narrow.

"Why would you..." Her voice fractures. "Why are you asking about that?"

Regulus blinks. "It's in the records," he says, gesturing to the text. "Just a note, really." He adds a tilt of his head; innocent, respectful.

But the Grey Lady's face hardens. "It was not in the books," she hisses. "Don't lie to me."

She floats closer, her translucent form just inches from Regulus. The air feels dense now. Cold. "What game are you playing, boy?"

Regulus straightens slowly, heart pounding with excitement, but his voice remains steady. "No game," he murmurs. "But your reaction tells me there is a story."

Her eyes flash. She is quiet for a while. Regulus waits. He's learned from their first encounter that she doesn't want to be pressured. She will have to offer the information willingly.

"He wanted it," she says quietly, then, more to herself than to him. "He found me. He asked me where I had hidden it."

Regulus doesn't breathe.

"He was charming." She continues. "Knew how to say exactly the right things. How was I to know he would tarnish it?"

Helena blinks as if only now realising what she's said. Her lips press tightly together. "You know nothing," she snaps, backing away quickly. "Stay out of it. Some histories are better left buried."

But it's too late.

Regulus watches her drift through the bookshelf.

He asked me where I had hidden it.

Who was he?

And what did he take?

How does this even connect to the Restricted Section?

Maybe it doesn't. Maybe they aren't linked at all. Maybe Regulus has just stumbled onto something entirely different, another small piece of information he'll need later.

"Hey, Black." A voice rings from a level below him.

Regulus frowns and peers over the railing. Remus Lupin stands on the ground floor in full Gryffindor uniform, arms crossed, looking directly up at him.

"I need to talk to you," Lupin says.

"I have nothing to say to you", Regulus mumbles back.

No. Absolutely not. He's successfully avoided Potter and his merry band of distractions for a week now; he's not about to break that streak.

"It's about the potion you gave me--"

He doesn't get the chance to finish.

With a flick of his wand, Regulus sends a cluster of books tumbling from the shelf. They crash down toward Lupin, who deflects them quickly. He's got impressive reflexes. The books land with a dull thud on the floor, unharmed.

Delicate with books. Regulus can respect that.

"Are you fucking insane?" Lupin hisses, half-whisper, half-snarl.

Regulus sighs dramatically, then gathers his own books and begins descending the ladder. Fine. He'll humour him for a moment. Just because he didn't let the books suffer.

When he reaches the bottom, Lupin is already collecting the fallen volumes, carefully returning them to their places. He straightens and towers slightly over Regulus, glaring at him.

Regulus glares right back. "You don't talk about it where people can hear," he snaps in a low voice. "Or are you really that thick?"

"Why?" Lupin murmurs. "What was in it?"

Regulus lets out a cold laugh, "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yes, I would. Why else would I be here?" Lupin says through gritted teeth.

Regulus arches a brow. Interesting. Very interesting. Does Lupin want more? Why? Does his heart do that thing, too, pounding out of rhythm, fluttering like it might give out? Does he wake in the middle of the night, short of breath, his skin too tight around him?

Regulus had always assumed Lupin's life was... easy. He's top of the year, he has friends, loud, obnoxious ones, sure, but still friends, and he's a Gryffindor, which means he probably believes in all that noble nonsense about fighting the good fight and dying for the cause. Sure, Regulus has noticed that Lupin is often ill, like even now, he looks like he hasn't slept well, but who is Regulus to judge? He hasn't slept well, either. His potion doesn't help with that, though.

Lupin runs a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding out of every movement. "Just... can't you tell me what was in it?"

"No," Regulus replies flatly.

Lupin exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Brilliant. Don't know why I even bothered."

"You bothered," Regulus says, folding his arms across his chest, "because you want more."

Lupin hesitates, fingers flexing like he's holding back words or maybe just trying to ground himself. Like this is extremely difficult conversation for him. Well, he is not alone in that. Regulus hates every second of this, too.

"Yes," Lupin admits then, almost too quietly for Regulus to hear.

"Well, I don't have any," Regulus says, voice clipped. "Ran out."

He's gone through the last batch himself. More than he meant to. Lately, he needs it more often. Too often.

Lupin sighs like the wind's been knocked out of him. "Right. Great. Thanks anyway."

And Regulus doesn't know why the next words come out. He doesn't care about Remus Lupin. But the boy looks like he's unravelling in the same places Regulus is, and Regulus knows that feeling. The helplessness. The humiliation of needing something just to have a steady heartbeat. The way it still doesn't go away.

"I can brew more," he says. "Next batch."

Lupin looks up sharply, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"For a price," Regulus adds.

Lupin lets out a breath of laughter, short and bitter. "Of course. What do you want? I don't have much gold, but I can--"

"I don't want your gold, Lupin." Regulus rolls his eyes. "I want cigarettes."

Lupin blinks. "Ah. Right. Sure. That's not a problem."

"And a Muggle book," Regulus says casually, like it's an afterthought. It isn't.

"A Muggle book?" Remus repeats, visibly taken aback.

"Yes. Maurice, by--"

"E. M. Forster," Remus finishes for him. He's looking at Regulus now with something new in his eyes, curiosity, maybe understanding, and Regulus instantly hates it. He regrets saying anything. Regrets asking. Regrets agreeing to even speak to Lupin. And Lupin probably sees all of that written across Regulus' face because he says gently, "I'll get them for you. The cigarettes and the book. It's no problem."

Then he turns to leave.

Regulus clears his throat. "Lupin," he says, training his tone as icy as possible.

Remus stops and glances back.

"Not a word of this to Sirius," Regulus says. It's not a request, it's a condition. The last thing he needs is for his brother to know he's dealing potions to his friends and trading them for Muggle literature Walburga would crucify him for.

James feels like he's coming apart at the seams.

Like his body doesn't fit right in his skin anymore. Everything is too tight; his uniform, his chest, the air in the room. He's burning all the time. Sweating through his sheets. Waking in the middle of the night with his breath ragged and his hands gripping the mattress like it might keep him grounded. His whole body aches like he's been hexed.

But it's not pain. Not really.

It's worse than pain.

His thoughts are an endless loop of Regulus, Regulus standing too close to him, Regulus holding his wand at James' throat, Regulus looking at him like he's never hated anything more. And it would almost be bearable. James has wanted people before; he knows how to survive a crush, but this isn't that.

This is something different.

This is don't touch me, Potter playing on repeat in his head like it's been carved there with a dagger by Regulus himself.

And fuck, James would give anything to touch him. Just once. He almost did. It's haunting him. The almost. But it's not enough, brushing his fingers over Regulus' cheek. No. He wants to press his mouth against every soft, hidden place on that boy's body until Regulus forgets how to hate him.

But that's not an option. So James does the only thing he knows how to do with too much energy and nowhere for it to go: Quidditch.

The sky is the only place that makes sense anymore. When he kicks off the ground, it's like unhooking from gravity. From himself. The moment his broom stabilises beneath him, he stops being anything but pure, perfect motion.

He leans forward and shoots past his teammates like they're floating still on their brooms, his fingers clenched tight around the Quaffle. Everything else disappears until it's just air and speed and the feeling of wind ripping through his hair like it's trying to cool the fire inside him.

He's ruthless in practice. He pushes harder, flies faster, and takes shots from angles he has no business attempting. And he makes them. Every time. The team's cheering impressed, but James can't even hear it. He doesn't want to impress anyone. He just wants to fly.

He loops through the goalposts in a wide arc, the muscles in his thighs trembling, sweat slicking the back of his neck. His heartbeat is thunderous.

And then someone's yelling next to him, cutting through the wind.

James startles, turning his head. It's Sirius.

"Prongs!" Sirius shouts, his voice sharp against the breeze. "Practice is over! Didn't you hear Carter?"

James blinks. No, he didn't hear Carter. Didn't hear anything, really. He slows down and drops altitude. He eases off the broom, slowing his descent. Sirius swoops down beside him, smooth as ever, and lands with practised ease.

James swings off his broom, breathless, the world crashing back in all at once. There is an echo of voices coming from the stands. He wipes sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt, yanking it off over his head as Sirius catches up.

"Oi," Sirius says, grabbing his shoulder to slow his stride, eyes lit with adrenaline. "You were fucking brilliant."

James offers a weak smile. "Thanks," he mumbles, still winded, his skin hot and damp.

The stands are still half-full. People came to watch like they always do before a match. Ravenclaw's team sat in the front row, pretending not to watch too closely, but James knew better. Everyone thinks they're practising tactics for the Ravenclaws, but they're not. Longbottom's idea, from last year; to throw off your opponent by preparing for someone else entirely. They've been drilling the tactics for the Hufflepuff game. The Ravenclaws are being played before the match even starts.

James is almost at the doors to the changing rooms when Sirius grabs his arm again. "Hey! Prongs," he says, a little more softly this time. "You alright?"

He's frowning now, properly frowning. Hair soaked, falling over his brow, his eyes searching James's face. Sirius never misses anything when it comes to him.

"Yeah," James says, fast. "Just wanted to fly a little longer. You know me." He tries to flash a grin. "Always chasing the wind."

Sirius huffs a breath of laughter, "Yeah," he says, but he's still watching him too carefully. "Right."

James turns away before he can say anything else.

He hates this.

Hates that Sirius is looking at him like that, worried and confused, because James always tells him everything. Always. Sirius is more than a best friend. He's James's person. Someone who always gets it.

Except this.

This thing with Regulus. This unbearable, growing hunger. It feels like a betrayal. Like something James has to carve out of himself before it takes root. Before it destroys everything.

He needs to stop. He needs to fix this. He needs it to go away.

Now.

Inside the changing room, Carter's voice booms through the warm, sweaty air, "James Potter!"

James turns just in time to catch a slap on the back.

"If everyone flies like James flew today, Ravenclaw won't know what bloody hit 'em next week." Carter claps his hands, grinning. "They'll be lucky to touch the Quaffle!"

Cheers rise around him, but James barely hears them.

Carter is already launching into a rundown of their Ravenclaw tactics. James pulls on a fresh shirt and makes himself focus. This matters. Every word Carter says matters because this is their year. The House Cup belongs to them.

When Carter finally wraps up, James trails after Sirius out of the changing rooms. Sirius is talking to Marlene, and they halt as a girl is waiting by the exit. Blonde, pretty, clearly looking for Sirius. The same girl Sirius had snogged at the Gloaming Feast.

James watches as Sirius falters, caught off guard for a half second before slipping into that easy, effortless grin. She's gushing about his flying, and Sirius, being Sirius, leans against the stone wall, soaking up the praise like sunshine.

Marlene rolls her eyes and glances sideways at James, and he smirks in response. They move away, walking toward the castle together, Marlene filling the space between them with chatter about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend. It's the same weekend as the Ravenclaw match; first trip to the village on Saturday, then the game on Sunday.

"I want to get my nose pierced," she rattles on. "But my parents would murder me."

James hums, only half-listening.

Lily joins them on the second-floor landing, falling into step as they ascend the stairs toward the Gryffindor common room. The girls are already planning their Saturday and butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. James agrees. Sounds like a plan. A distraction. He needs one of those.

Desperately.

"James?" Lily says, slowing her pace as they near the Fat Lady. She tilts her head, her brow pinched with concern. "Are you alright?"

Why is everyone asking him that today?

He's fine. He is. Or he's trying, at least. Pretending. Faking it well enough that people shouldn't notice. He's not like Remus, who is practically an expert at hiding everything he feels. But James... James isn't that transparent, is he?

Surely, he's not walking around with I want to shove my tongue down Regulus Black's throat stamped across his forehead.

"Yeah," he says quickly, forcing a smile. "I just really need a shower."

He doesn't wait for a response and just slides off from the girls and takes the boys' dormitory stairs two at a time.

When he gets inside, Remus is already there, sitting cross-legged on his bed with a book in his lap. He barely looks up, and James doesn't say anything. He walks straight past him and into the bathroom.

The cold water hits his skin like punishment.

And Merlin, maybe he deserves it.

When James steps back into the dorm, he feels like he can breathe again. The cold shower helped... kind of. At least now, he's no longer actively on fire. He always thought that was just a myth, something boys joked about to be dramatic. Turns out, it works. Sort of.

Remus is still curled up on his bed, reading. No Peter, no Sirius.

James runs a hand through his dripping hair and hesitates, hovering near the end of Remus' bed. He could talk to Remus. Remus knows. Remus gets it.

In the fifth year, Remus got fed up with everyone constantly assuming he fancied girls and just... told them. Told them that he likes boys. Peter had said he was not sure if he liked anyone, and Sirius, well, Sirius had been in his boobs era. Declared he was in love with every girl in school and their boobs specifically. Wouldn't shut up about them for months.

It had actually been kind of sweet, now that James thinks about it. Easy. No judgment. Just... acceptance.

"What's up, Prongs?" Remus says, lifting his eyes from the page. James hadn't even realised he was just standing there like an idiot.

Remus squints at him, amused. "Where'd you leave the other half of your brain?"

James chuckles. "Oh, Sirius stayed back. He's... talking to someone."

Remus nods, slow and patient. He tilts his head, waiting.

He clears his throat, glancing at the spot beside Remus. "Can I... uh. Can I ask you something?"

Remus shifts immediately, folding his legs up. "Sure."

James sits down, pressing his knuckles into his knees. He has no idea how to start this. What is he even asking? He can't say anything that would actually give it away. Not that.

"James?" Remus asks gently, voice low now. His face is so open and calm, it almost makes James want to tell him everything. Spill the whole thing. Just say it; I want Regulus Black, and it's driving me absolutely mental.

But he doesn't.

Instead, James says, "When you kissed a boy… like, the first time… what was it like?"

Remus blinks. His expression doesn't change much, but his voice softens further. "You mean, like, in general? Or do you mean, was it weird?"

James lets out a short, awkward laugh. "Yeah. No. I mean both... I guess."

There's a pause. Remus sets his book down gently on his nightstand and thinks for a second before answering.

"I was really nervous," he admits. "Mostly because I had no idea what I was doing. And I wanted it to be good, you know? I wasn't thinking about whether it would be weird; I was just thinking about how much I wanted it."

James nods slowly, eyes fixed on his friend.

"But it wasn't weird," Remus adds. "It felt... right. Like, oh.. that's what that's supposed to feel like. Don't get me wrong, the kiss itself was kind of terrible. It was wet and a bit awkward, but it still felt good. Because I wanted it. Because it was with a boy. And at the time, I really fancied that boy."

James swallows. His fingers twist together in his lap. "Did it--" He stops, shifting. "Never mind."

Remus tilts his head. "Did it what?"

James waves a hand, embarrassed. "I was just going to ask if it felt different than kissing girls, but... You haven't, so. Doesn't matter."

Remus chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. "Actually... I have."

James blinks. "Wait, what?"

"Well," Remus shrugs, "you know the world we live in. I wanted to be sure. That I was gay, I mean. So... I tried it."

"Oh?"

Remus smiles, crooked and honest. "And confirmed. Very much gay. Kissing a girl felt like... kissing my hand or something. Nothing. No spark. No interest. I was so aware of her breath, her lips, her tongue. I didn't want to do it again."

James laughs softly. Remus continues, "But the kissing part itself... Well, kissing is kissing, technically. But the difference is wanting it. Wanting them. That's what makes it feel like something."

James bites the inside of his cheek and nods again, slower this time. This is not helpful at all because, well, James is very much aware of the wanting part. It is there. He can't deny it, even if he tries. But he was hoping maybe it didn't mean anything. That maybe he just wanted boys now too. That if he kissed any boy, it would get Regulus out of his system.

Remus is still looking at him; eyes soft, head tilted just enough to say I'm here. I'm listening. Say what you need to say. He's not pushing, not prying. Just waiting because he can tell James wants to say more.

And James does. It's just... hard. Like something knotted inside him.

He shifts awkwardly on the bed. "I just... lately... there's this..." He gestures vaguely with his hand, then drops it into his lap. "I feel like I'm going out of my mind, Moony. Like, I can't turn it off. It's all I think about. All the time. And I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to control it."

"A boy?" Remus asks gently.

James lets out a heavy sigh and rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah. A boy."

And that's the closest he's come to saying it out loud. Regulus' name burns the back of his throat, but he doesn't let it out.

Remus nods. Just once. No surprise, no shock. Just quiet understanding. He doesn't ask who. Doesn't make it harder than it already is.

James stares down at his hands. "It's like... I want it to stop. But I don't, not really. I just want to stop feeling so... confused. And guilty. Like I'm doing something wrong just by thinking about it."

"You're not doing anything wrong."

James huffs a laugh, dry and disbelieving. "Feels like I am."

"Why?" Remus asks quietly. "Because he's a boy?"

James shakes his head. "No… no, it's not that. I just--" He takes a breath, "I've always sort of thought you fall for people. Not boys or girls, just… someone who makes you feel something. Like they look at you and suddenly you can't breathe right anymore."

He glances at Remus. "Is that weird?"

Remus smiles gently, "No, James. That's not weird at all."

James frowns. "But… surely you're supposed to choose, right? Like, one or the other?"

Remus huffs a laugh. "Says who?"

James feels his face heat. "I don't know. Just… no one talks about it. Boys talk about girls, girls talk about boys. Like it's a rule, or something. Like anything else doesn't exist." He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. "But it doesn't make sense to me. Why should it matter? Why can't people just… like who they like?"

Remus tilts his head, voice softer now. "James?"

"Yeah?"

"Then why does it feel like you're doing something wrong?"

James swallows hard. Clears his throat.

Well, shit.

"It's not… it's not because he's a boy," he mumbles. "It's because of who he is. He's someone I definitely shouldn't want. Like, really shouldn't. But I do. I want him. And I don't know what the hell to do with that."

"Well, trying not to want something that you already do. That never works, mate. Trust me. It just makes everything louder in your head."

James says nothing because it makes sense. It's true, and he hates it. He knows that telling himself to not think about Regulus makes him think about him more.

"This world is a shitty place, and it makes it harder... You know, being honest with yourself. But you just have to let yourself feel it, even if it's scary. Everything else eventually falls into place. Especially when you realise there's nothing wrong with wanting."

James laughs slightly and leans back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling. "You're disgustingly wise, you know that?"

Remus grins. "Someone's got to balance you and Sirius out."

They sit in silence for a moment, the kind that doesn't need to be filled.

James turns to look at Remus then and smiles, warm and so very thankful to have a friend like him in his life. What would they all do without Remus Lupin? Seriously?

"Thanks, Moony," James says softly.

"Anytime, Prongs," Remus replies with a gentle smile. Then he pauses. "Can I ask you something now?"

James freezes, throat tightening. Shit. If he asks who it is, James is dead. Because he can't say it. He just absolutely can't. But still, he nods, heart thudding. Remus has earned that much and more.

"On the beach, when the air shifted and someone tampered with magic and you know... that thing happened. Did Sirius see me die?" He asks quietly; he is solemn now, and James feels a twist in his stomach.

"Moony..." he whispers.

"I just want to know," Remus says, exhaling like he's been holding it in all week. "Everyone's been talking about it. Trying to figure out what it meant. Like… if we saw how we actually die. And if we're supposed to believe it. Like someone's fate was laid out in front of us, and we're all just waiting to see who proves it first."

James feels a chill run down his spine. He doesn't know what to say.

"Did you see someone?" he asks, quietly.

Remus nods, "Some random sixth-year Slytherin. I was walking away, you know, planning to go back to the castle, and he just bumped into me. He was drunk, and then suddenly he was choking on thin air, and I fucking panicked and then... well then he was him again."

James nods, and Remus looks at him, his eyes wide, "So you are not going to tell me what Sirius saw? How I died in front of him?"

James feels sick at how simply Remus says it. He frowns and shakes his head, "You're not going to die, Moony," he says firmly.

Remus just shrugs. "We all die eventually, James."

"Yeah, but..." James protests. "It was a trick. A magical illusion or... or a curse. Dumbledore said it wasn't real."

Remus shakes his head. He clearly doesn't believe James.

"I know what Dumbledore said. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to die."

James looks at him, and Merlin, it's awful. The way Remus says it like he's accepted it. Like he's already made peace with the idea. It makes James want to throw something. Because this is not what he is supposed to be talking about with his friend. Remus is not going to die. None of them are. They will all grow old together.

"You don't get to say stuff like that," James mutters.

Remus blinks. "What?"

"I don't care what happened on that beach, Moony. We are all going to make it. We have to. Stop behaving like you are disposable." James says, more firmly now.

Remus just looks at him for a long while, then slowly, he nods and offers James a soft smile. James knows that smile. Knows Remus doesn't believe James, but wants to make James feel better. And James is naive. Even childish because he takes it. He takes it and smiles back. He refuses to entertain the idea that any of his friends will die.

Chapter Text

The first Hogsmeade weekend has finally arrived, and James thinks it couldn't have come at a better time. After everything that's happened, everyone needs a break. They need to laugh, eat too many sweets, and pretend, just for a few hours, that everything is normal. That this is just another school year. That there is no war brewing.

Of course, things aren't entirely normal. New safety measures have been added. Hogsmeade will have a few Aurors walking around, and professors are chaperoning. But still, James has decided it's going to be a good day. The sun is peeking through the clouds; the air is crisp and cool. It's a perfect day to venture into the village.

"This is betrayal," Sirius says for the tenth time in the last hour. He's glaring at James.

"I'll be there an hour later," James says patiently, for the tenth time in response.

"Not good enough," Sirius huffs, crossing his arms with the full dramatic flair of someone who believes he's been abandoned for life.

"I know, dear, my sweet Padfoot," James says solemnly, placing both hands on Sirius' shoulders. "But Remus and Pete will take good care of you. You'll be in excellent hands."

"We'll hold your hand until James gets there," Remus adds dryly, arms folded across his chest.

Sirius' eyes sparkle at that, just a little, and James barely manages to hide his grin.

"Will you be alright without me?" he asks, mock-sincere.

"I'll survive," Sirius says, "but only just."

"How dare Slughorn do this to us?" he adds, voice rising with theatrical rage.

"I fear it wasn't Slughorn," James sighs. "It was McGonagall. She's the one who caught me in the hallway."

And honestly, he still can't believe it. He got detention from McGonagall. For being late to Potions. James doesn't know which is more embarrassing, that he got caught running late to class or why he was late.

First of all, last week, the four of them managed to pull something incredible; they turned the grand staircase into a slide. A slide. It was fucking brilliant. Magnificent. And they didn't get caught. Because James never gets caught. Everyone was having a great time sliding into the Great Hall for breakfast. It had worked perfectly, just like they had planned. For a moment, it had felt like Hogwarts again, laughing, shouting, gliding down the marble steps like nothing else in the world mattered.

But then yesterday. Honestly, what a fall from grace. After pulling something like that off, and then getting caught running late.

James had been standing in front of the prefect's bathroom door, having an internal crisis like a bloody idiot. He couldn't decide if he should go in or not. He bloody wanted to. But Regulus's Don't touch me was still playing on a loop in his mind, and he felt like he was breaking that boundary if he went in. But he is so curious, and he just wants to know what Regulus is up to. How to get into that secret passageway. Where does it lead to? So many questions.

And he just wants to see Regulus. How fucking pathetic is that? James hates himself for it. But he just can't help it. He hasn't run into Regulus for over a week; it's like the boy is deliberately hiding from him. Occasionally, James would catch a glimpse of him in the Great Hall, but that was it.

And James… well, James has always wanted what he couldn't have.

So he was running late to potions because he couldn't bloody decide whether to go into the prefect's bathroom or not. And McGonagall caught him. Of course, she did. The only Professor in this school who wouldn't let him get away with it. So, he is stuck in detention. Helping Slughorn run errands this morning.

He waves his friends off from the courtyard stairs and watches as Sirius insists on holding Remus' hand like Remus promised, and Remus bickers with him about it, but James knows he will eventually give in.

Peter glances back over his shoulder and shoots James an annoyed look that doesn't need translation. "How dare you leave me alone with these two?"

James just grins, throws him a lazy salute, and turns on his heel toward the dungeons. He figures if he gets this over with quickly enough, he can still make it back to Hogsmeade in time for butterbeer.

He's halfway down the cold stone dungeons corridor when he hears the unmistakable sound of Slughorn's booming laughter echoing off the walls. James slows, steps up to the door of the potions classroom and stops.

Because what is he even looking at?

Slughorn is basically gleaming, hand on his belly as he lets out a wheezy chuckle. His other hand reaches out and claps someone affectionately on the shoulder.

Someone.

Regulus Black.

Who is smiling.

Smiling.

James blinks.

Regulus murmurs something James can't quite hear, and Slughorn laughs again, shaking his head fondly. There's a soft clinking of glass vials being sorted; Regulus is organising something on Slughorn's workbench with neat precision.

He's not in a school uniform.

And somehow, that small fact punches the air out of James' lungs.

Regulus is dressed in all black: fitted black trousers, a soft black jumper. Beneath it, a white shirt peeks out at the hem and collar, sharp against the dark fabric. It's stupidly simple. Effortless. And yet James can't look away.

His hair is softer today, loose curls framing his face like they were placed there on purpose. How the hell does he do that? Look polished and undone at the same time?

James swallows, and it doesn't go down right. It's hitting him like the bloody Hogwarts Express at full speed, no brakes. And he's just standing on the tracks like an idiot, unable to move. Because Merlin, he wants him. He wants Regulus Black.

Wants to press him up against the dungeon wall, tear off that jumper, get under his skin. Let this boy ruin him. Utterly and completely.

"Potter?"

James blinks. Slughorn is staring at him, his bushy brows drawn together in concern, like he's been talking for a while and James has just been… standing there. Staring.

Regulus is standing upright now. Also staring at James, but there is no confusion on his face, just clear, undeniable disdain. Like James's presence alone has ruined his entire day. Week. Year. Life.

Why can't James want someone who doesn't find him entirely repelling? Who doesn't hate him with every core of his being? Why does he want the one boy who clearly wants nothing to do with him?

"Sorry, Professor," James manages, clearing his throat. It comes out thin and croaky. "I'm here for detention."

"Ah! Yes, of course, James, my boy!" Slughorn beams and claps his hands. "Come in, come in. I've got a few small errands that need running. A delivery to the Apothecary, and a personal matter for Madam Rosmerta. But with the two of you working together, it'll be done in no time, and you can still enjoy Hogsmeade! I know how important it is for you kids."

"I'm sorry, Professor," Regulus says coolly. "But do we really need Potter for this?"

Slughorn turns to look at Regulus and chuckles in such a fatherly manner, "Now, now, Regulus," he says, wagging a finger. "Let's not let petty house rivalries get in the way, shall we? James is here for detention. We can't very well exclude him from the fun now, can we?" He finishes with a wink in James' direction.

Regulus doesn't even spare James a glance. "I understand, Professor, but perhaps he'd be better suited to staying behind and cleaning cauldrons. I can manage the errands on my own." He says politely.

And this gets under James' skin, and he is getting pissed off. He strides forward, coming to a stop beside Regulus, close enough to hear the breath rolling out of him. He glares.

Regulus steps one inch to the side, slowly, like James is something vile in his personal space. He glares back.

"If you're so concerned about the cauldrons," James says, "feel free to get on your hands and knees and scrub them yourself."

"That's more your skillset, Potter," Regulus replies coolly. "On your knees suits you."

James swallows a little too hard. His throat clicks.

Slughorn claps both of them on the shoulder, "Alright, alright, boys! No need for dramatics. I need both of you for this. The ingredients I'm sending over are extremely delicate. Mooncalf bone ash smells atrocious if shaken too much. Might ruin the whole thing. Very delicate work. Very delicate."

Regulus takes a slow, deep breath like he's debating whether it's worth murdering James here and now or later in the streets of Hogsmeade.

"Of course, Professor," Regulus says tightly. "I'll take the Mooncalf."

James' eyes narrow. "What, you don't think I can be delicate?"

Regulus looks at him then. Slowly, up and down, his eyes drag over James' body, and it makes James' skin heat. Then Regulus looks James in the eye, "No." He says flatly.

Slughorn just chuckles and hands Regulus a wooden box, sealed with brass and topped with a glass panel that reveals the faint shimmer of blue-glowing ash. "Handle with care, son," he says. "Rare stuff. Not easily replaced."

Regulus takes it with both hands, gaze locked on the contents.

Then Slughorn turns to James, strapping a leather belt across his shoulders and setting a tray of delicate, stoppered vials against his chest. "And you, my boy, do not drop this. I'm trusting your Quidditch reflexes more than your Potions grade."

James gives him a tight-lipped smile and grips the tray with both hands. He can feel Regulus' eyes on him, cool and judgmental and maddening.

This is going to be a long walk to Hogsmeade.

"And this," Slughorn says, plucking a small vial from his desk, its contents gleaming a deep, luminous violet, "is a special delivery for Madam Rosmerta." He tucks it neatly onto James' tray, then claps his hands with finality, beaming. "Off you go, boys. Have fun and do be careful!"

Regulus doesn't wait. He turns sharply on his heel and strides out, box in hand, not sparing James a second glance.

James exhales through his nose, shoulders already tense, and follows him through the winding dungeons and out into the light of the castle grounds.

Regulus doesn't say a word. He just walks, back straight, shoulders squared like he's got a broomstick taped to his spine. He has this annoyingly perfect posture, and it's bugging James. Everything about Regulus's annoyingly perfect presence is bugging James. He wants to throw something at him. A rock. A vial. Anything. But he can't because his hands are stuck holding the tray.

The silence grows thick. Suffocating. James has never liked silence. It gives his brain too much time to think, and thinking only ever leads to spirals. He hates the way silence feels like rejection. He knows it's silly, but he can't shake it. That feeling.

So he clears his throat, "You're really just going to ignore me the whole way?"

"Yes," Regulus replies flatly.

James groans and picks up his pace until he's level with Regulus. Regulus visibly tenses. "Stay where you were, Potter."

"Nope," James says. "It's a free country. I'll walk wherever I want."

Regulus huffs and scoffs and clearly struggles to maintain his composure. "You are insufferable."

"Tell me something I don't already know." James rolls his eyes. "Your insults are getting old."

Regulus doesn't reply.

And that. That blank dismissal only winds James up more. The frustration is coiling under his skin, burning his insides, and there is nowhere for it to go but straight at Regulus. "What's your problem?" he blurts. "Seriously. Why don't you just tell me? Because I genuinely don't understand what I've ever done to deserve this level of loathing from you. You treat me like I'm something you stepped in. Like you woke up one day and thought, You know what would be fun? Hating James Potter--"

"Stop talking," Regulus mutters.

"No", James snaps. "I deserve to know. Because I have always been nice to you, Regulus. I have never... even though you and Sirius... I have always been decent--"

"Stop," Regulus says more sharply now. "Stop right now, Potter."

"Or what?" James seethes, "Or what? Huh? What are you going to do?"

Regulus's jaw tightens. His eyes flash, and he lifts his chin; there is controlled fury radiating from every inch of him, like he's barely holding it together.

Good. James wants him pissed off. Wants him rattled. Because James is angry too, frustrated and burning. It is only fair if Regulus is burning too.

"You really can't handle it, can you?" Regulus spits. "When someone doesn't want to kiss the ground you walk on. It kills you, doesn't it? The idea that not everyone worships the perfect James Potter."

James can't help but grin, "No need to call me perfect."

Regulus stares at him like he wants to set him on fire. "You..." He mutters.

"Yes, love?" James deflects, tilting his head.

Regulus stares at him, frozen, like James just spoke in a language he doesn't understand. He just stands there, mouth parted. They've stopped walking. James doesn't know when it happened, but they are standing there face-to-face.

"I--" Regulus starts, then snaps his mouth shut.

James steps in; not close enough to touch because he remembers Regulus' words clearly. He would never break that boundary if Regulus didn't ask for it. But he stands there, right in front of Regulus.

"You what?" James says. Softer now. "Go on. Say it."

Regulus clears his throat and grips the mooncalf ash box tighter. "Back off, Potter."

James arches an eyebrow. Doesn't move. "Or what?"

Regulus glares at James. Long. Hard. But James is used to that look. That look makes his skin heat. Maybe there is something utterly wrong with him because of that.

Regulus grips the edges of his Mooncalf Ash box tighter. His jaw clenches and unclenches.

Then Regulus exhales and turns on his heel, the gravel rolling under his foot the only sound James can hear. That and his heart hammering in his ears.

When James finally gets to Three Broomsticks, all his friends are gathered around one big table, and their laughter echoes through the crammed pub. It's afternoon now, and it seems that every student has found their way in for some butterbeer. James weaves his way through the crowd, lifting a hand in greeting to a few familiar faces, before finally making it to the bar. He spots Madam Rosmerta immediately, rosy-cheeked with a broad smile as always, a towel slung over one shoulder.

"James, my sweet boy," she greets warmly, wiping her hands on her apron as she bustles over to him.

"Hey, Rosmerta. I've got a delivery for you from Slughorn." He hands her the small vial, which glimmers faintly purple in the low light. Her eyes light up as she takes it with both hands.

"Oh, bless you. You're a darling," she says, slipping it into her apron pocket. Then she slides a butterbeer his way. "On the house, of course."

James beams. "You spoil me."

She winks and turns away to help another customer, already calling out someone's usual order before she's halfway down the bar.

James grabs his butterbeer and makes his way to the table where his friends are crammed together in what looks and sounds like a full-on verbal brawl.

"Waterloo is clearly their best song, it's got everything, drama and tragedy," Marlene is shouting over Mary, who is holding a butterbeer in one hand and gesturing wildly with the other.

"Knowing Me, Knowing You is emotional maturity in song form, Marlene! It's poetry!" Mary insists, earrings swinging as she jabs her finger at the table for emphasis.

James sidles up to them and slams his butterbeer on the table with a grin. "You're all wrong. It's Dancing Queen. It's always Dancing Queen."

Everyone turns to him.

"Prongs!" Sirius yells, lunging over the table to clasp James' hand.

James laughs and lets himself be pulled down into the seat beside Sirius, slotting neatly into the chaos. Remus is on his other side, calmly sipping his butterbeer, and Peter is perched across from them, nodding along.

"Honey, Honey is so underrated though," Lily says, resting her chin on her hand and smiling at James. "It's cute. And kind of ridiculous. I love it."

"ABBA's best song hasn't even been released yet," Peter says then. "It's still coming. I can feel it."

"The only cool thing about ABBA is their costumes," Sirius declares, "Honestly, I'd wear those boots."

"You would," Remus mutters.

Sirius turns to smirk at Remus, "And I would look fucking amazing in them."

"You would." Remus mumbles and Sirius beams.

James turns to Remus and grins, "What, no opinion still on ABBA?"

"You know my opinion, James. They sound like the inside of a disco ball." Remus says.

"That's the whole point!" Mary yells.

"Remus Lupin, don't say you are allergic to glitter." Lily teases, pointing her finger at him.

This is what every day should be like, James thinks, smiling to himself, his friends around him, all laughter and noise, like there's not a single care in the world.

They leave Hogsmeade late in the afternoon, just in time to make it back for dinner. Marlene's going on about her new nose piercing, gesturing wildly as she explains how she convinced someone in the tattoo shop near the Hog's Head to do it for her.

"Technically of age," she says, "Seventeen, thank you very much."

It's a small silver ring, and James has to admit it looks pretty cool on her. Sirius is obsessed. Remus is obsessed that Sirius is obsessed.

"How was detention?" Remus asks as he and James slip out of the booth and follow the others through the pub toward the doors. It's quieter now; just a few professors lingering around and the usual crowd of regulars drinking pints.

"Oh, you know," James shrugs. "Errands for Slughorn. Nothing terrible. I got a butterbeer out of it."

Remus nods. "We went to Tomes and Scrolls."

"Of course you did." James grins. "You know, I could never talk Sirius into spending an hour in a bookshop. You've got some kind of power over him, Moony."

Remus shrugs, like it means nothing. "He's just a good friend. You weren't here, so… what else was he going to do?"

James wants to shake him, because how is Remus, Remus, who notices everything, who is the best of them, not seeing this? Sirius follows him around like a puppy, and Moony is absolutely clueless. James doesn't get it. He should probably just ask. Because one of them has to give before they finish school. It just has to happen. But how does he meddle without them realising he is meddling? He needs to talk to Pete. Because these two idiots need a little push.

"Oh, I don't know… literally anything else?" he mutters, pushing the pub door open. Cool evening air greets them.

"He is a good friend," Remus murmurs, mostly to himself. His eyes follow Sirius up ahead, who's bounding down the road next to Marlene.

"The best," James agrees quietly.

They're interrupted by a voice behind them, "Oi! Boys!" Madam Rosmerta calls out, bustling toward them with something in her hand.

"Someone left their sweets on the table," she says with a smile, holding out a little Honeydukes box. Jelly Slugs.

"Oh, right, we stopped by Honeydukes earlier," Remus says, reaching for the box. "Thanks, Rosmerta!"

James takes it from her instead and flashes his best grin. "Cheers!"

He turns to call out to the others, "OI! Who forgot their Jelly Slugs?"

Nobody answers. The group keeps walking, too loud and too distracted to hear.

"Jelly Slugs going once, going twice…" James pockets the box with a shrug. "Alright then. Founder's keepers."

Remus snorts. "You're shameless."

"You would have done the same thing," James winks.

"I don't even like Jelly Slugs," Remus points out.

"Ah, right. Only chocolate for our dear Moony."

"Always chocolate," Remus says with a smirk. "Anyway…" He drops his voice and bumps James' shoulder slightly. "How's it going with, uh… what we talked about last week?"

James nearly chokes on air. "Oh. That. Yeah. Much better, actually."

A lie.

Remus gives him a look, "That bad, huh?"

Is James seriously so bloody transparent? He really needs to learn to hold a convincing lie because this is not good. Good at all.

"I just don't know what to do, that's all," he mutters.

Remus hums thoughtfully. "Well, have you considered, I don't know… talking to this crush of yours--"

"He's not a crush," James snaps a bit too quickly.

Both of Remus' eyebrows shoot up like they're trying to escape his face. He very obviously fights a grin. "Apologies. My mistake. Clearly not a crush."

"It's just--" James flails a hand, searching for a word. "An itch."

"An itch?" Remus repeats, and now his lips are definitely twitching.

"Yes," James says. "Just an unfortunate… temporary itch."

"Well, you know what they say about itches."

"Don't," James groans, swatting him on the arm. "Don't even start, Moony. I already regret telling you anything."

Remus suddenly sobers a little. "Sorry. No tease. I get it. I know what it's like."

James tilts his head. "You do?"

Remus waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, you know. I've had… those too."

"You have?" James says, probably a little bit too eagerly.

Remus immediately frowns, "Past tense, James."

James sighs. Loudly. Dramatically. Tragically. Sure, he thinks. Sure, past tense. If Remus is going to live in denial, then so will he. That's only fair.

He doesn't have a crush. Absolutely not. It's just a thing. A wanting thing. Wanting something he can't have.

It'll go away. Eventually. Because it has to.

He will find a way to get rid of it.

Hogs Head is the same as usual: dark and stuffy, smells like burnt wood, damp air and firewiskey. Regulus doesn't understand why Barty loves this place so much. It's disgustingly unclean, and the glasses are always smudged, like the bartender can't be bothered to wash them properly.

The place is packed, every stone table and booth occupied by cloaked figures. Regulus weaves his way through the crowd to their usual corner. Only Pandora is there, sitting at the table, scribbling into a notebook under the dim candlelight.

"Hey," she says, lifting her head as he approaches. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes have that glazed, faraway look. She hasn't really been herself since the Gloaming Feast. Just quiet and distant.

"Where is everyone?" Regulus asks, sliding into the booth across from her.

"Barty and Evan are over there, talking to the vampire who's playing." She nods toward the far side of the room. Sure enough, Barty and Evan are standing by the wall, chatting with a tall man holding a guitar.

"How do you know he's a vampire?" Regulus mumbles.

"I've seen him around. He came to our house a couple of times last summer," Pandora says quietly. "They support Voldemort. Think he'll give them free access to, you know... feast."

"Why the fuck is Barty and Evan talking to him then?"

"He's got tattoos. And he plays guitar," Pandora says with a crooked grin.

"It's always the tattoos..." Regulus mumbles.

Pandora huffs a small laugh. "He's just a boy."

Regulus grins. "I know."

Pandora pushes a braid behind her ear and looks at him. She doesn't look like she belongs in this place, this musty tavern where darkness festers and wicked things happen. Though she can be wicked. More wicked than the rest of them if she wants to. But there is just something in her. She's softer somehow, touched by a light that the rest of them don't have.

She tilts her head. "Are you okay?" Her brow furrows. "You look tense."

Regulus immediately straightens, flexing his fingers. "I'm not tense."

"You are," she says matter-of-factly. "You always are, Reg. But now more than usual."

"I had to run an errand for Slughorn," Regulus mumbles, like it explains everything.

Pandora arches an eyebrow. "Alone?"

"No."

"With who?"

"James Potter."

Just saying the name is too much. It twists in his gut like something sharp, makes his skin feel too warm, too tight.

Yes, love.

Fuck. Why would Potter say that?

"Oh?" Pandora blinks, all innocence. "And James Potter makes you tense because…?"

"I hate him," Regulus mutters.

Pandora nods slowly. "Sure," she says, in that voice that means she doesn't believe him for a second.

It's ridiculous. Why wouldn't she believe him? He hates James Potter.

He does.

"He is arrogant and walks around like he owns this school. No. He walks around like he can do whatever he wants. Say whatever he wants. And his smile... He smiles like he is trying to shed light on the entire castle. Like everyone needs a little light in their lives. It's ridiculous. Fucking irritating, actually."

Pandora is staring at him, eyes wide, clearly fighting a smile. Regulus snaps his mouth shut.

"Oh no, please... do go on," she says sweetly.

Regulus curls his hand into a fist. Fuck. Did he go too far? What did he even say? Something about Potter's smile.

"So," Pandora says, batting her lashes, "James Potter has a pretty smile?"

Regulus opens his mouth. Closes it. Considers pulling out his dagger and stabbing himself there and then. End this misery. "I didn't say that." He mutters through gritted teeth.

Pandora only grins and nods, "Of course not."

Regulus straightens his sleeves, brushes away some nonexistent lint, and turns to Pandora. "What are you drawing?" he asks, changing the subject, pretending whatever he just said never happened.

Pandora's smile fades. She glances down at her sketchbook, then silently opens it and pushes it across the table for him to see.

Regulus leans in. The edges of the page are lined with trees, all bending inward toward the centre, where a small garden blooms inside a planter box. The flowers spill over the edges, curling delicately across the sketch.

He raises an eyebrow. "From your dream?"

Pandora nods.

He flips back a page. The same garden, same box, same trees. He flips again. This time, only flowers fill the paper. And the next page, too.

She speaks softly. "Every single night."

Regulus looks up. "Does the same flower still wither?"

"Yes." She sighs heavily. "But there's more now. There's a stag. He's not always there, but sometimes it feels like… like he's trying to warn me not to touch the flower. But I always do. And it always withers."

"Mm." Regulus hums, sliding the sketchbook gently back toward her.

"Have you told Evan?"

"No." She shakes her head. "I… I just have this feeling I shouldn't."

Regulus frowns. "Why?"

Pandora hesitates, brushing her fingers under her nose before shrugging. "Twin thing?"

Regulus just nods; he's not going to question that. "What about Dorcas?"

Pandora's lips twitch. "She thinks it's my Inner Eye waking up."

Regulus nods again. It's a thought that's crossed his mind, too. He doesn't know any Seers; has no idea how it's supposed to work. But it's surely not normal to have the same dream every night.

"Funny, isn't it?" Pandora grins now, though there's no real humour in it. "Pretty sure our father would gut me right at the dinner table and put me on display.. You know to show everyone happens when you disgrace the family."

She says it like a joke. But it isn't. Not really. Regulus knows exactly what purebloods think of Seers.

"Not going to happen," he says quietly.

Pandora lets out a laugh. "Will you let me borrow your dagger, then?"

Regulus gives her a crooked, wicked little grin. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Are we talking about Reggie's Pointy Pete?" Barty smirks as he slides into the booth beside Regulus, slamming down a drink and spilling some of the butterbeer across the table.

"No," Regulus deadpans, shooting him a glare.

"I heard the word dagger and made an assumption," Barty says with a wink.

"My dagger is not named Pointy Pete, and you know it."

"Well, until you tell us the real name, we're going with Pointy Pete," Barty grins.

"I second that," Evan adds, dropping into the booth beside Pandora.

"Speaking of..." Barty croons, leaning closer to Regulus, "Care to show us Pointy Pete again? I haven't seen him in a while. I miss him."

"No." Regulus deadpans.

"But why?" Barty whines. "He and I had such a connection."

"He's shy," Regulus replies flatly.

"I'll be gentle," Barty purrs.

"Why are you talking about the dagger like it's someone you plan to seduce?" Evan asks, raising an eyebrow and taking a sip of his butterbeer.

"Because I do plan to seduce him," Barty says with wide and innocent eyes as he bats his lashes at Regulus. "He's sharp. Mysterious. Emotionally unavailable. Just my type."

"Merlin have mercy," Pandora mutters, covering her face with her hands.

"You need help." Regulus mumbles.

Barty gasps. "You take that back. Pointy Pete would never speak to me that way."

"He's a blade, Barty."

"He's a lover, Regulus."

"Please stop," Evan begs now. "I don't need to hear more of your weird kinks, okay?"

Barty turns to Evan slowly, tilting his head just a touch, eyes gleaming. "Really?" he croons. "But I was just getting to the good part."

Evan stares into his butterbeer like it contains salvation. "What a tragedy," he mutters, taking a sip. "Such a loss to the world."

"I'll have you all know," Barty adds loudly, "I am a very gentle lover."

Evan promptly chokes on his drink, sputtering as Pandora lets out a loud laugh and thumps him on the back.

"Thank you, Barty. Truly. That was information none of us were suffering without." Regulus murmurs.

"You're welcome," Barty says. "Always happy to educate."

Chapter Text

"Please, Reg," Dorcas says. "I beg of you. Please. Pretty please?"

She's standing in their dormitory doorway, all dressed up. Her long, woven hair falls over her shoulders, half of it tied up into two small buns. She's wearing a black top and jeans, layered with a mix of necklaces that sway as she leans on the doorframe, arms crossed, looking pleadingly at Regulus. He just shakes his head and remains firmly on his bed.

"Barty and Evan are already there. Just go and find them."

"No, I want you to come with me," Dorcas insists.

"Pandora's there too."

"I know, but I need you, okay?"

Regulus takes a deep breath and meets her eyes. "Why?"

Dorcas shifts on her feet and bites her lip. "I just need someone I trust to make sure I don't do anything stupid."

"Why would you...." Regulus rolls his eyes, "Oh. She's there, isn't she?"

Dorcas smiles a little and nods, "Well, she's a Gryffindor, so yeah, she'll be there..." She pushes off from the doorframe and walks towards him, "Please, Reg, this is like the only chance I can admire her and not look creepy doing it."

Regulus scoffs, "You know, saying that out loud already makes you creepy?"

Dorcas drops to her knees beside Regulus' bed, reaching for his hand, "Pleaseeeee, Reg. Look, I'm literally begging you on my knees, and I swore I'd never get on my knees for any man ever."

Regulus side-eyes her, "I'm busy."

"You are busy all the time these days, this is just a couple of hours, okay? Please, I want her to see me looking hot."

Regulus sighs deeply. Fine. He can understand that. He can respect that. Because if he were to try to get someone's attention (which he obviously isn't), this would be the perfect chance.

"Okay." He mumbles.

"Really?" Dorcas beams, jumping up and tugging his arm. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," Regulus mumbles, closing his notebook. "Fine. You get two hours."

Dorcas squeals and yanks him up from the bed. "Oh, Reg, thank you, thank you, thank you!" Then she is hugging him, squeezing him so tight that Regulus can barely breathe. His body tenses. He can't help it. It just happens. Even though he trusts Dorcas fully. She is one of the few people in this world he truly trusts, but still, his body stiffens.

"Sorry," Dorcas says quickly and takes a step back.

"It's okay. Whatever." Regulus waves her off, "Let's go."

"Wait a second," Dorcas says, pointing at him and wagging her finger. "You are wearing that?"

"What is wrong with what I'm wearing?" Regulus groans.

"Just.. lose the vest maybe." Dorcas grins. "I know you're hot and could probably pull anyone, but maybe try not to look like I dragged you there against your will. We want to blend in."

Regulus rolls his eyes and slips off his black vest, leaving just his white shirt. "Good enough to your standard?"

"Yes, but leave the dagger too," Dorcas says.

"No." Regulus replies as he walks past her to the door, "The dagger stays."

Dorcas lets out a dramatic sigh. "What if you end up snogging someone and they slip their hands under your shirt and then, surprise, surprise, there is something sharp and oh wait, what's that? They cut their finger on your dagger?"

Regulus throws a glare over his shoulder. "Not going to happen."

"Which part?" Dorcas croons. "The snogging or the dagger?"

"Neither," Regulus mutters as they walk through the Slytherin common room.

"How are you so sure we're going to get in?" Regulus asks as they climb the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower. "Why would they invite Slytherins? We'd never let Gryffindors into our common room."

"Because not all of us are like Wilkes and that brainless lot. They'll let the nice ones in," Dorcas replies. "Besides, they're all too drunk to notice who's coming or going. We'll blend in, don't worry. If Barty and Evan got in, we will too."

"If my brother's near the entrance, I stand no chance," Regulus mutters.

"He's probably off snogging someone in a dark corner. Relax."

When they reach the Gryffindor entrance, people are moving freely in and out of the portrait hole. No music echoes into the hallway; someone must've cast silencing charms on the entrance.

"Why is this so exciting? I've never been to the Gryffindor common room," Dorcas whispers as they stop in front of the Fat Lady. "I don't even know what it looks like."

"If you'd read Hogwarts: A History, you would know--" Regulus starts, but Dorcas waves him off. "Okay, two hours of no talk about Hogwarts: A History, deal?"

The Fat Lady squints at them. "More people? Password, please?"

Regulus turns to look at Dorcas, who smiles at the Lady, "Toffee Lion."

"Fine, just go on then, I guess…" She swings open, and the moment they step through, the music crashes into Regulus.

"See? Easy." Dorcas beams, slipping into the crowd.

"That's their password?" Regulus mumbles. "Ridiculous."

"Oh, like we are any better." Dorcas grins. "Besides, they'll change it in the morning."

The Gryffindor common room is packed. There's barely room to move, and the air is thick with the smell of sweat and firewhiskey. The walls are draped in rich red tapestries, and enchanted banners hang overhead, reading GRYFFINDOR and THE QUIDDITCH CUP IS OURS.

"They have won nothing yet," Regulus murmurs, glaring at the banners.

Dorcas grins, "They obliterated Ravenclaw."

"Doesn't mean they'll win the Quidditch Cup."

"Of course not." Dorcas laughs and nudges Regulus forward. "We'll win. Obviously."

Every corner is crammed with people. Some sit along the windows, and the dormitory staircases are blocked by a couple furiously snogging. The sofas that have been pushed to the walls are overflowing. In the centre of the room, people dance, squeezed so close together they can barely sway. A few have climbed onto tables, moving in sync to an upbeat pop song Regulus has never heard before.

It sounds like glitter vomit all over the floor.

"What is this music?" Regulus mutters, following as Dorcas pushes ahead.

"I don't know, but I kind of love it," she grins over her shoulder.

"You need to get your ears checked if you think this is good music."

"Shit," Dorcas swears, suddenly freezing in place. "She's right there. Hide me... fuck, what if she sees me? Reg, hide me." She's speaking so fast that Regulus can barely keep up. Then she's spinning around and disappearing into the crowd in the opposite direction.

"Wasn't the whole point of you dragging me here so you could speak to her?" Regulus asks as he chases after her, craning his neck to see over his shoulder as he still has no idea who this crush is.

"No!" Dorcas whines, "I can't speak to her, she's too cool for me Reg. So out of my league. This is exactly why I needed you here, to hold me back from blurting something ridiculous to her beautiful face."

"You are not out of her league," Regulus replies flatly. "If anything, you're too good for her."

"You don't even know who she is!"

"I don't need to."

Dorcas shoots him a small, sweet smile as she slips over to the wall by the enormous trophy shelf.

"So what, we came here just to hide in the corner?" Regulus asks, eyebrow raised.

"Like you'd want to mingle," Dorcas shoots back with a grin.

Regulus nods because fair. Absolutely fair. He'd not want to talk to any of the people here.

He pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time. How has it only been fifteen minutes? This is going to be a long two hours of his life. Two hours that he can never have back.

"Is that..." Dorcas swats Regulus's arm, "...Barty and Isla?"

Regulus follows her line of sight across the room by the windowsill, where indeed Barty is leaning his arm against the wall and Isla Crlow is twirling her fingers with the hems of his shirt.

"Do you think we have to start hanging out with her?" Dorcas sighs.

"No." Regulus mumbles. He knows Barty. Barty doesn't do commitment.

"I mean, if I had to pick someone from our house, she wouldn't be that bad to hang out with. She's actually quite decent." Dorcas says. "Don't think either of her parents is associated with you know..."

"Say his name." Regulus murmurs.

Dorcas turns to look at him, "Voldemort," she mumbles, "There, okay, now we are not talking about that because it ruins the whole mood."

Regulus just nods and crosses his arms, his attention drawn to the staircase as loud commotion comes from that direction, and then Sirius slides down. Or, well, it looks like he was literally spit out, and he tumbled to the floor. "Well, that was fun," he laughs, throwing his arms in the air. And then Potter is there. Regulus has no idea where he came from, but he is laughing and helping Sirius up from the floor. He slings his arm around Sirius' shoulder, and they stumble through the crowd, heads held together as they are laughing about something. Then the song changes, and Sirius tugs James toward the centre of the room.

"This is our song!" they yell in unison, climbing onto one of the tables without hesitation.

Regulus's body tenses.

He knows this song.

The last summer before everything fell apart, Sirius had blasted it from his bedroom so loudly the walls of Grimmauld Place rattled. Regulus remembers the aftermath. He remembers the shouting, the punishment, the forced silence that followed.

Now, here Sirius is again, moving like the music has set him free, his hands in his hair, his whole body loose with rhythm. And James...

Regulus tries not to look.

Tries to focus on anything else. He tries to focus on the tapestry on the wall. It's got such an interesting pattern on it. Rich golden swirls and lions. But his eyes are dragging.

Because fuck, he's not blind.

James Potter is right there, laughing, glowing, his body moving like it was made for this. He rolls his hips into the beat, his arms thrown up, his curls bouncing as he sings along.

Regulus swallows hard, trying to regain some sort of composure.

He should look away. He wants to look away.

But he doesn't.

He can't.

He watches as James and Sirius move in sync, their shoulders rolling, hips swaying, shouting lyrics into each other's faces like the world doesn't matter. The music thrums through Regulus' cold and ruined soul. But he is not cold right now. No.

He feels too hot in his clothes.

Regulus tries to pull himself together, tries to remember how to breathe, how to blink, how to exist.

But he's gone.

There's nothing he can do about it.

He's just a boy.

Like, Potter isn't tormenting him already with his existence. Like Regulus isn't already standing on the cliff's edge, one nudge away from the free fall.

Yes, love?

Love.

Love.

Love.

James' voice from yesterday echoes in his ear. It feels like James is right there, his breath brushing his ear, whispering that sinful word to him. Regulus feels so very hot. His skin prickles.

He needs to leave. Needs to go throw himself into the lake and let the weight of this drown him under. But his eyes won't move. They're glued on James's hips, on the worn blue jeans that cling in all the ways that jeans should not be allowed to cling. They fit him perfectly. Of course they do. Everything fits James Potter perfectly. It's not fair.

And Regulus absolutely will not let his mind wander back to earlier today, to rain-soaked, sweat-drenched James Potter flying like a bloody Greek god at the Quidditch match. Because just no. There is only so much a boy can take in one weekend. Only so much.

And then the worst happens.

James Potter's eyes find his.

And it's too late for Regulus to look away. Too late for Regulus to pretend that he wasn't staring like some idiot. Fucking shit.

It feels like the music fades around him. His ears ring. Or maybe he is just going to burst into flames and die. Turn to ash. That would save him from this humiliation.

Then James blinks. Turns. Says something to Sirius. He jumps down from the table. Doesn't even glance at Regulus, just disappears into the crowd.

Regulus doesn't understand anything. Nothing. Because deep, deep down in the most pathetic parts of himself, there's this foolish hope that maybe James Potter likes boys. Maybe he wants to taste Regulus the same way Regulus wants to run his tongue down every inch of that boy. But it's pathetic. That thought. It's all in Regulus' head. He is clearly hallucinating everything. He hasn't slept properly in a month, and now it's catching up with him--

A sharp slap to his arm. Regulus startles, turning just in time to see Dorcas wildly smacking at him, eyes fixed ahead.

"Help," she whispers, frantic. "Help, Reg."

He turns, and there she is.

Marlene McKinnon. Right in front of them.

"Hey, Meadowes. Didn't think you'd show up," McKinnon says with a smile. Her cheeks are flushed, her fringe stuck to her forehead, strands of hair curling with sweat.

Dorcas opens her mouth. Closes it. Smiles. Regulus watches her like a horror story unfolding.

"Black," McKinnon nods, acknowledging Regulus.

Regulus nods back.

Dorcas is still not speaking.

McKinnon clears her throat. "Didn't think this'd be your kind of thing," she says to Regulus.

"It isn't," he replies flatly.

Marlene lets out a soft laugh. "Well… glad you came anyway?"

Regulus subtly nudges Dorcas. This is her cue to speak. Why is he having a small talk with some random girl he knows nothing about?

And Dorcas still says nothing.

So Regulus sighs, already preparing to fling himself into the lake the moment this ends.

"Well," he says, "Dorcas was just saying something about that. Weren't you, Dorcas?" He turns to her expectantly.

Dorcas stares at him like he's just asked her to recite ancient runes in front of the whole class.

"I…" she stammers.

There's a pause. A long, excruciating pause. Marlene is looking at Dorcas with the smallest smile on her face.

Regulus watches Dorcas watch her.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He's never coming to one of these things again.

Never.

"Mooncalves only dance during a full moon," Dorcas blurts, and Regulus actually gapes at her. His mouth opens. What in the name of Salazar Slytherin is she doing?

McKinnon blinks. Then her face breaks into a laugh, "What?" she asks, a little breathless.

"It's part of their mating ritual," Dorcas adds helplessly, like her mouth is moving without permission from her brain. Regulus stares at her in pure horror. There is no stopping this trainwreck.

"Well, I... I didn't know that," McKinnon says with a little smile.

Dorcas whips her head toward Regulus. "We have to leave. We have to leave right now, don't we?"

Before he can say anything, she's already turned on her heel, vanishing into the crowd. Regulus nods solemnly at McKinnon.

"We have to go feed our pet goldfish," he says, deadpan, as if that's the most reasonable excuse in the world, and bolts after her.

He catches up with Dorcas at the drink table. She's clutching a near-empty bottle of Firewhisky and takes a messy swig before rasping,

"Did I just talk about magical mating rituals in front of Marlene McKinnon?"

Regulus opens his mouth, maybe to laugh at her, but nothing ever comes.

Because then he sees them.

In the corner.

James Potter, fingers curling into someone's waist, pulling them close.

Lily Evans.

Her red hair falls around them like a curtain as she kisses him back like it's easy.

And Regulus...

Regulus feels it.

The push.

He's falling now, right off the cliff edge. And there's nothing to catch him on the way down.

Lily can't stop looking.

Across the room, through the low golden haze of candlelight, there they are, pressed up against the stone wall like the world doesn't exist outside the space between their mouths.

His hands are in her hair. She's laughing into the kiss, as if it's nothing, as if it's everything.

Lily tips back her cup, finishes whatever's left, and it burns going down. She wants it to. Her throat tightens. Her hands won't stop trembling. She doesn't understand why her hands won't stop trembling. Firewhiskey is supposed to burn you and then numb you. Make you feel nothing. She is still feeling something. Something she doesn't want to feel.

She turns away too fast, bumping into someone's shoulder, muttering sorry, pushing through the crowd. Like if she keeps moving, the feeling won't catch her.

She almost doesn't notice Potter at the drink table. His head is down, expression unreadable, still slightly out of breath from dancing like a lunatic on that damn table with Sirius. His curls are sweat-damp, his shirt untucked. He looks wild, like something untamed.

She watches him reach for a half-empty bottle and drink like it might fill something in him.

He doesn't look at her, just glances at the wall behind her, then back at the drink.

Lily steps closer. She doesn't think twice; she just lets the words fall from her mouth, "Do you want to snog?"

James blinks. Turns his head. Looks at her properly.

He opens his mouth like he might ask why, but then he doesn't. He just nods once.

She reaches to put his bottle down on the table and grabs him by his shirt, pulling him along to the side, and then she kisses him.

She kisses him like someone who wants to feel something else.

And the kiss is not bad.

James kisses like someone who's been kissed before, who knows how to tilt his head at the right moment. His hands find the right spots: her jaw, her lower back, the edge of her waist. He doesn't linger too long. It's warm. Soft. Even nice in a way, milk is still nice after being left on the table for half an hour too long. You can still drink it, though it doesn't taste great.

She closes her eyes. She wants to feel the brief illusion of closeness. But all she feels is the steady thud of her heartbeat.

James doesn't say anything. He doesn't pull away too fast or hold her too long. His eyes are distant when they part, like he'd already left before they even started. She thinks maybe he kissed her for the same reason she kissed him, because sometimes the only way to stop thinking is to do something that drowns the noise.

Lily lets herself linger a second longer, eyes on his collarbone, lips still parted, not because she wants more but because she doesn't want to move yet. Not back into her head. Not back into reality.

She exhales slowly. Rational Lily, responsible Lily, can come back later.

For now, she just wants to be numb.

She will regret this tomorrow.

And then she kisses James again.

Remus doesn't understand how this happened. When it happened. Because he could've sworn he only looked away for a minute. A single, stupid minute, he watched Sirius. Sirius, who was dancing. What else was Remus supposed to do? He has no willpower over himself when it comes to lusting after his best friend from a safe distance away. He was doing it so well, too, pretending to sip his butterbeer, watching everyone's celebrations in a mildly interested way. Because he wasn't going to drink, they all have to be up again in a few hours. Someone has to be the responsible one.

But then, when he turned back to James, just to make sure he was still where he had just seen him less than a minute ago, he wasn't there. He was snogging Lily Evans. How on earth did that happen?

Remus blinks once. Twice. They are still there. James is grabbing Lily's waist, and Lily is holding firmly onto James' shirt.

What?

He's not sure which part is more confusing. James kissing Lily, or Lily kissing James. Because he knows them. He knows them. There's nothing there. No secret feelings. Nothing.

James asked Lily out a couple of times last year, but that was just a fleeting crush. He got over it. Remus knows this.

And Lily. She always said to Remus that she didn't like James that way. Never like that.

And yet there they are.

Some people around the room are watching. Including Regulus Black and Dorcas Meadowes, for some godforsaken reason. What the hell is Regulus Black doing here?

Remus shakes his head. No time for that now. Because something has to be done about this whole James and Lily situation, right? There's going to be fallout. Surely. Someone's going to snap. Something is off here.

"Moony, will you dance with me?" Sirius is suddenly at his side, all sweat and sparkle, and beautiful. He is smiling like the smile is only meant for Remus. Like it's their little secret, but it isn't. Remus knows better.

"You know I don't dance," Remus mutters in return.

Sirius pouts. "Please? For me? Just this once?"

"Still not happening."

"But I'm asking so very nicely," Sirius says, low and sweet like it's a dare, like he knows what his voice does to Remus.

Remus swallows and keeps his eyes fixed on James and Lily. Sirius follows his gaze.

"What are you-- oh… oh." A breath. "Wait. What?"

Remus nods. "Yep."

Sirius staggers back half a step, clutching his heart. "Prongs, you live and breathe!"

"Yep," Remus repeats.

"I didn't know James still liked Lily. He didn't tell me." Sirius continues.

Remus keeps staring at James and Lily. Then. Merlin. It clicks.

James's non-crush-crush. The one he was so determined to get over. Is this his way of doing that? Of trying to forget someone else?

Oh, James.

Oh, sweet, stupid James.

Remus sighs, long and quiet.

He's going to learn the hard way. They all do. Remus would know. Those feelings don't just vanish because you will them to. They dig in. They wait. They haunt like ghosts under your skin, on every touch. Every look. Every smile.

"Why wouldn't he tell me?" Sirius goes on, voice dipping into confusion. "I could've helped him."

And that's when it hits Remus again. James hasn't told Sirius about his non-crush-crush.

Why wouldn't James tell him? They tell each other everything.

None of this makes sense. Remus feels like he is missing an essential piece of information here.

"Is that my brother?" Sirius cuts in, eyes narrowing as he follows a figure slipping through the crowd.

Regulus Black. Moving fast with Dorcas Meadowes at his side. She's rambling about something, gesturing wildly. Regulus isn't even pretending to listen.

"Since when are we letting Slytherins into our common room?" Sirius snaps. "I need to have a word with the Fat Lady. This is bollocks."

"I don't think she would let any of that lot in," Remus says carefully.

"Well, she let him in. And he's one of them." Sirius seethes.

Remus wants to ask, is he, though? But he doesn't. Because Sirius knows his family better than anyone. And if he doesn't trust Regulus Black, neither will Remus.

James and Lily part, and they stare at each other for a moment. Neither of them smiles. Lily just brushes her thumb over her lips, and James rakes his hair with both hands. Lily whispers something, and James says something back. Then he turns around and walks towards Sirius and Remus. Lily remains pressed against the wall and tilts her head back. For a second, Remus is torn on where to go, but then Marlene is there, waving her hands in the air, clearly confused, and Lily laughs. But it doesn't look like a happy laugh, it looks like one of those what the fuck did I just do laughs.

"I can't believe I just did that," James mumbles, walking past Sirius and Remus.

Sirius runs after James, wrapping his arm around his shoulder, "That was not on my Marauders bingo card for the year, Prongs!" he smirks.

Remus follows them, and Peter appears by his side, "Hey, did I just see James and Lily...."

"Yes," Remus replies.

Peter looks at him, eyes wide and confused. "I thought he didn't like Lily that way anymore?"

"Me too," Remus says.

Peter lets out a baffled laugh and then rushes to catch up with James and Sirius, who are already climbing the dormitory staircase.

"How was it?" Peter calls. "Kissing Lily Evans?"

"I want you to take me to Hogsmeade next time."

"Mmm..." Barty hums. His hand slides under Isla's shirt like it knows the way by now. His thumb flicking over her nipple over and over again in a careful, soft movement that he knows she likes. Her breath hitches right on cue.

She tugs his hair gently. "Barty…" she whispers.

He grins and leans in to kiss her.

But she dodges.

Dodges.

Her hand presses flat to his chest and pushes him back a little, and Barty just blinks at her. Because why is she not kissing him right now? Her lips are all pink and kissable and right there.

"Barty, did you hear what I just said?" Isla asks, narrowing her eyes. Her breathing's still uneven, which feels like mixed signals, honestly.

"Yeah, totally." Barty nods, "What's the problem here?"

"So you'll take me to Hogsmeade next month?" she presses.

"What?" He lets out a confused laugh, "You wanna talk about Hogsmeade now? We're literally in a broom cupboard. That's like... anti-talking territory."

She rolls her eyes. "If we're dating, I want to do dating things," she says.

"What?" Barty frowns. "We are not dating."

Isla looks like he just slapped her across the face. "We've been doing this for a month, Barty!"

"Yeah... so?" he says. "We snog. We have fun. No one's dying."

"You are such an asshole."

She shoves him and starts adjusting her shirt, muttering something about wasted time and her life being a tragedy.

The cupboard door swings open, and Barty groans loudly. "Your nipples would disagree on that!" he calls after her.

Isla spins around with a death glare. "ASSHOLE!" she shouts, and then she's gone.

Barty just stands there, rubbing both hands over his face. He doesn't seriously understand what just happened and how he is now alone in the cupboard. He doesn't get girls. Doesn't get what they want. Like she was happy five minutes ago, gasping against his neck. She was clearly having a fucking brilliant time. And then this? What?

Just what?

When Barty barges into their dorm, it's full chaos.

Dorcas is pacing the floor, muttering "ohmygodohmygodohmygod" like a broken record, while Regulus and Evan are just… sitting on their beds watching her like they don't know what to do. There is no Pandora in sight.

"What's going on here?" Barty asks, slamming the door closed. All of them turn to look at him.

Dorcas pauses mid-pace, tilting her head. "You know your shirt's unbuttoned, right?"

"Oh," Barty says, glancing down. Right. That. His chest is half out, and it just makes him angrier because it reminds him how good of a time he was having before Isla imploded. "Girls are fucking confusing!" he announces, throwing his arms up.

"Here we go," Evan sighs. "What did you do this time?"

Barty glares at him, and yeah, okay, Evan looks tired, which is fair because it's, like, middle of the night, but it's not just tired. It's the kind of quiet, worn-down look Barty notices, because he just always notices.

"It's Isla bloody Carlow!" He mumbles then.

He stomps over and flops dramatically onto Evan's bed, half on top of him. Evan makes a disgruntled noise but doesn't shove him off. Which is nice.

"We were having a brilliant time," Barty says, "and then she just calls me an asshole out of nowhere!"

Evan shifts beneath him and mutters, "Your shirt's still unbuttoned."

"What?" Barty says, sitting up. "So? You've seen me shirtless before."

What's the problem here? If Barty could see Evan shirtless, well, he wouldn't fucking complain now, would he? But that's just a glitch in his brain.

"Sounds about right," Dorcas says.

"She wanted me to take her to Hogsmeade!" Barty huffs.

"Oh no," Dorcas gasps, hands on her cheeks. "The audacity! A girl expecting you to take her on a date. You poor thing."

Barty ignores her. "I just don't get it! What does going to Hogsmeade have to do with snogging in a broom cupboard?"

Dorcas throws her hands in the air. "I can't believe you fumbled Isla Carlow!"

"And you fumbled Marlene McKinnon," Regulus says.

Dorcas whirls around "Stop saying that, Reg! I never had a chance to begin with!"

"Wait, what?" Barty sits up straighter. "Marlene McKinnon? The Gryffindor beater?"

"Also known as Dorcas's not-so-secret crush," Evan says.

"Ohhh," Barty grins. "You're bloody joking."

"No!" Dorcas groans, crossing her arms. "She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen! And have you seen her new nose ring? Illegal. Illegal to be that hot."

Barty cackles and throws his head back against Evan's pillow. "I can't believe it was Marlene McKinnon this whole time. Truly tragic."

"Oh yeah?" Dorcas snaps. "At least I didn't fumble mid snog like some twat."

"Oi, who are you calling twat here?" Barty yelps, turning on the bed to face Evan, "Hey Evan, can you tell her I'm not a twat?"

"No." Evan deadpans.

"But, I'm fragile."

Evan just sighs and shoves Barty lightly. "Go to your own bed."

Barty doesn't move; he leans a little closer, so their shoulders brush against each other. "But you're warm." He whispers.

Evan rolls his eyes, but he doesn't push him away again.

And Barty? Well, Barty just grins like he won. Because, for whatever reason, this is the best part of the night.