Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room felt like the inside of a held breath — stretched thin, on the edge of breaking.

It had once been grand — a hall built for celebration, strategy, and ceremony. Now, it bore the weight of war. Months of sieges and whispered midnight councils had left their mark. The floor was scarred with the drag of boots and chairs scraped back in urgency. The high, arched stone walls had long since lost their charm — tapestries torn or burned away, sconces casting a weak, flickering glow of spent magic. The windows had been sealed for weeks, maybe longer. The air was thick and unmoving, steeped in the scent of wax, old parchment, and something colder, metallic — the ghost of dried blood, settled deep into the cracks of the flagstones.

In the center stood a long wooden table, too long, as if it had been meant to fit hope and planning but now only held exhaustion. Its surface was littered with maps speckled in ink and dirt, crumpled messages, half-drunk mugs of tea gone cold, uneaten slices of bread stiff with time. There were documents, too — some neatly stacked, others with scrawled handwriting in the margins, stained by fingerprints or something darker. A single chair lay on its side near the corner, forgotten in the urgency of a meeting no one had the heart to finish.

They had been there for hours. Maybe longer. No one was keeping track anymore.

Around the table, bodies slumped into postures of bone-deep weariness: James Potter, arms crossed tight over his chest, leg bouncing in a rhythm he couldn’t stop; Sirius, silent for once, his jaw tight as he stared into nothing, fingers clenching the edge of the table; Remus beside him, eyes bruised with sleeplessness, flipping through a report he wasn’t really reading. On the opposite side, Marlene and Dorcas sat shoulder to shoulder, both too proud to lean but close enough to touch if they needed to. Lily stood behind them, one hand resting gently on Mary’s back, her other hand clutched around the stem of a mug she hadn’t sipped from in an hour. Alice sat alone near the corner, quill still in hand, tapping against the wood in a slow, distant rhythm.

And at the far end of the table, Euphemia Potter.

She stood, back straight, but her face betrayed the fight it took to hold that posture. Her grey robes were immaculate, as always, but her hair — usually swept neatly into a knot — was fraying at the edges. Her eyes, darker than James’s, swept across the room not with judgment, but with resolve. She had been crying, perhaps not long ago, but there were no tears now.

Her voice, when it came, was not loud — but it cut through everything.

“What now?”

The question didn’t echo. It didn’t need to. It just hung there, suspended in the middle of the smoke-heavy air, as everyone slowly turned toward her — because they had been thinking the same thing. Whispering it behind teeth. Holding it in their ribs like a splinter they didn’t dare pull out.

No one answered. Not yet.
Because no one knew.

Not really.

The question — “What now?” — didn’t echo, but it settled deep in the room like a second shadow. And for a few seconds, no one dared answer. Because the truth was: no one knew.

Then it began — not an answer, but a stir of restless energy. The kind that builds up in closed spaces, between tired bodies and minds that haven’t slept, haven’t breathed properly, in days. Voices rose not all at once, but like sparks catching in dry air.

“We hold the line,” said Sirius abruptly, too loudly. He stood from his seat, knocking into the edge of the table, sending a stack of grimy field notes sliding sideways.
“What we’ve always done. We strike where we can. We protect what’s left. We wait.”

“We’re not just waiting,” Remus cut in, his voice calm but sharp. He looked up from a tattered scroll of communication logs. “We’re bleeding. We’re crumbling. We’re losing people every night.”

“And we don’t even know where he is,” added Dorcas, leaning forward, hands clasped tightly. Her voice was steady, but her jaw was locked. “The last confirmed sighting was three weeks ago in northern France. Since then, nothing.”

“He could be injured or broken or-” said Mary quietly, too quietly- "or- dead"
That earned her several looks. Not angry — just… raw.

“He’s not,” James said, and for once, his voice didn’t waver.
He was seated with one leg bouncing relentlessly under the table, knuckles white where they gripped his mug. “If he were, we’d know. We’d feel it. Someone- someone would have said something, anything-”

Lily, next to him, reached out and placed a gentle hand on his wrist. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t loosen his grip either.

“Then what do we do?” asked Alice Longbottom, her voice floating like it came from somewhere far beyond the room. “We can’t keep fighting shadows. And we don’t have the numbers anymore.”

“We don’t have anything,” said Frank, her fiancée. His arm was in a sling. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Half the Order is scattered. The Ministry’s barely holding. Most of our safe houses have been burned. People are terrified.”

“People are tired, we- we are tired” said Molly, her husband near with a hand on her arm. And that landed harder. Everyone felt it in their bones.

“If we stop now, everything we’ve lost will mean nothing,” said Marlene, breaking her silence. “We can’t let that happen. We can't stop.”

“No one’s stopping,” Sirius growled. “But if we keep going like this, we’ll have nothing left to fight with.”

“You think I don’t know that?” James said, louder now. All eyes turned to him. He stood, finally, his chair scraping loudly behind him.
“I’ve buried people I loved. I’ve seen entire villages turned to ash. And every day, we ask the same damn question — what now, what next — and no one has an answer!”

The silence that followed was heavier than the one before.

And then, Euphemia spoke again, this time more quietly.
“We’re losing the war. Aren’t we?” The silence that followed was heavier than the one before. No one met anyone’s eyes. And in that vacuum — where even grief seemed tired of itself — the weight of reality pressed down on every shoulder.

“We’re losing the war,” Euphemia said again, softer this time.
Not asking. Stating. And no one moved to contradict her.
Then, finally, from the head of the table — where the light flickered the faintest shade of blue — Albus Dumbledore shifted.

He had been silent all this time, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes clouded by thought. He looked older than any of them remembered. Not because of time, but because of knowing.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet.
But no one dared interrupt.

“You are not wrong.”

It was not comfort. It was not despair. Just the truth, as he had always given it.
Clean. Cold. Necessary.

“We are losing ground. But perhaps… not yet the war.” His eyes scanned the room, not lingering on any one person. “There are pieces moving we cannot see. Shadows shifting. Paths closing.” He let the silence breathe. Then added, almost to himself-
“But sometimes… the end begins far from the light.”

No one spoke.

A few glanced around the room, searching for something to hold on to — an answer, a sign, even a breath of false comfort.
Sirius exhaled harshly through his nose. Lily leaned slightly closer to Mary, though she didn’t say a word. Dorcas’ eyes were fixed on the far wall, as if trying to force it to give her a reason to hope.

Albus lowered his hands from beneath his chin and let them come to rest atop the table, fingers steepled loosely as if in quiet prayer. His eyes — once far away, cast into some unreachable corner of the future — shifted back to the present. Focused. Steady. But behind them lived something ancient. A weight. A sorrow that had no name.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried the hush of old cathedrals and buried secrets.
“There is something—” he began, measured and grave, “—something I have felt moving for some time now. Like a silence where there should be sound. A tremor just beneath the surface of the world. As if something unnatural has stilled, or something long dormant has risen.”

He let the silence settle over them for a breath. Then another.
“A current,” he continued, quieter now, “pulling against the tide. I believe someone has acted. And I believe—”

He stopped. Not because the words failed him — Albus Dumbledore was not a man who lacked words — but because the air had changed.

It shifted like it knew something. Grew thick and alert. In that instant, every gaze around the room snapped up. Bodies tensed. Wands shifted in sleeves. Someone, somewhere, had stopped breathing.

Albus opened his mouth again—

But the sound came first.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

Three sharp, deliberate strikes against the thick wooden doors. Not frantic. Not desperate. But certain. Inevitable.

Like a verdict.

Everyone froze.

Not a magical apparition. Not a Patronus. Not the green flare of the emergency alarm spells. Just knuckles on wood. James stood first, wand in hand by instinct.
Sirius followed, his movements sharper — all adrenaline now, all edge.

“No wards were tripped,” said Remus, already halfway to the door. “Whoever it is… they walked here.”

Albus didn’t move. But his eyes narrowed.
“Open it.”

Frank reached for the heavy iron handle and pulled. The door creaked open just enough to let something through.

Not a person.

A small, square package, wrapped in dark cloth and resting on the stone floor.
No one stood outside. No footsteps echoed down the corridor. Just… stillness.
Frank looked to Albus, who gave a single nod. He picked it up, brought it inside, and laid it at the center of the table.

There was a letter, sealed in black wax, resting on top. The seal was plain. No insignia. Albus reached out and broke it.

A single sheet of parchment. Handwritten. He read it once. Then again. Slower.
Then he looked up — not at anyone in particolare, but into the room itself. Into the very air. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before. But the weight of it struck like thunder.

“I suppose this is the end.
I did what none of you could.
You’re welcome (or not). xx”

And beneath the letter — wrapped carefully, reverently, like cursed relics —
were five objects. Burned. Split. Marked with something ancient and terrible.

The Horcruxes.

"What does this mean, Albus?"

"What are those?"

"Who is sending them?"

"Are they dangerous?"

And then- "Is it done? For real?"

Albus stood slowly, as though the weight of the truth was settling across his shoulders, heavier with every second.
He looked down at the remains in the box — the ruined relics of something ancient, something dark — and his expression shifted from awe to dread.

“I must go,” he said quietly, but with conviction.
“I need to understand who did this — and what it means.”

A wave of murmurs rippled through the room.
“Why?” James asked. “Aren’t we glad it’s done?”

Albus shook his head.
“Whoever destroyed these… possesses a magic far beyond what we have seen in our time. This—” he gestured to the Horcruxes, “this is not the work of chance. It required power, knowledge, precision… and an extraordinary resistance to corruption.” He paused, then added, slower-
“Or none of those things at all — which would be even more dangerous.”

Sirius stepped forward, eyes narrowed.
“So what are you saying? That Voldemort’s gone?”

Albus hesitated — truly hesitated, the room holding its breath with him.
Then he nodded once, eyes distant. “Everything points to that. The rupture in the curse network. The sudden silence from his followers. The… collapse of wards around his strongholds. It all aligns. But something is missing."

James frowned. “So you’re saying—what? You don’t believe it?”

“I believe it happened,” Albus said. “I just don’t know how. Or why. Or what else they had to break to make it possible.”

“So we won,” someone whispered. No one knew who.

But Albus didn’t smile. “You ask if he is gone. And I believe he is.”
He looked around the room, meeting every pair of eyes with a kind of quiet gravity.
“But now we must ask something far more difficult.”

“Which is?” Lily asked, cautious.

Albus’s voice dropped to nearly a whisper.
“Whether that is a victory… or simply a shift in power.”

That landed like a stone dropped into still water.

Marlene leaned forward. “You think whoever did this could be worse than him?”

Albus didn’t answer immediately.
He glanced down at the parchment again — the words scorched into his mind:

I think this is the end. I’ve done what I could.

“I think whoever destroyed these… may not wish to be found.”
“But if they could destroy Voldemort…” He looked up.
“…they could just as easily replace him.”

2

The air at the top of the Astronomy Tower was thin, cool, and razor-sharp, like it remembered how to cut. When Albus Dumbledore appeared with a low crack, the sun was beginning to dip beneath the far hills, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The wind was restless. High, open. Watching.

He didn’t need to look far.

Regulus Black stood at the edge, back to him, arms folded against the breeze, dressed in all black — no insignia, no wand visible, just presence. He didn’t turn around.

Not at first.

“Took you long enough,” Regulus said, smirking faintly without looking over his shoulder. “Though I suppose I should be flattered.”

Albus stepped forward, quietly. “How did you know I’d come?”

Now Regulus turned, slowly. His face was pale, eyes darker than ever, but there was something else there too — steel. Stillness. Something earned.
“Because I know how you work, Headmaster,” he said coolly. “You know everything about your students. Past and present. Or at least… the ones you choose to see.”

Albus blinked once, gently.

Regulus stepped closer, shadows slicing across his face.
“I did what none of you could. I found every Horcrux. I destroyed them. I ended him.” There was no pride in his voice.
Only the edge of a blade drawn too many times.
“And I did it alone.”

Albus didn’t flinch. He folded his hands in front of him, voice calm.
“Why?”

Regulus tilted his head. “You already know why.”

A pause. Then Albus spoke again.
“Because we failed you.”

Regulus blinked — once. Slowly. But didn’t deny it.
“You saw my name,” he said. “You saw my house. My bloodline. And you placed your bets elsewhere. I was a Black, a Slytherin. So I was discarded. Like so many others.”

The wind picked up, lifting the hem of his coat like wings.

Albus’s voice was softer now. “And yet you saved us all.”
Regulus’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Is it over, then?” Albus asked.

Regulus looked out over the grounds. “I suppose that depends on your definition of peace.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No flourish.

“Completely?”

Regulus gave a sharp breath through his nose.
“As completely as one like him can be.”

Albus’s brow furrowed faintly. “And now?”

Regulus stepped forward, looking him directly in the eyes.
“Now we talk. I have conditions.”

Albus’s eyes narrowed.
“Conditions?”

Regulus’s voice was steady as stone.
“I didn’t do all this to go back to hiding. I didn’t tear down a monster to let the same system build another.” He stepped forward, close enough that the tension was visible in the air. “You’re going to listen. To everything. And if you want my silence — or my support — you’re going to give me what I ask.”

Albus didn’t respond immediately. Regulus smiled, slow, calculating.

“I didn’t survive to be ignored, Professor. I survived to rewrite the rules.”
Albus didn’t move.

The wind whipped through the tower again, cold now, colder than before. But Regulus stood firm, hands clasped behind his back like a general addressing the aftermath of war. “I’m not interested in medals,” he said. “Or statues. Or hollow thanks from people who once whispered about my bloodline.”

He turned slightly, gaze sharp, voice smooth. “What I want is structural change.”

Albus raised an eyebrow.
“Go on.”

Regulus began to list his demands with the same precision he must have used to dismantle Voldemort’s immortality. One by one. Sharp. Undeniable.

“A seat on the Wizengamot. Immediately.”

Albus blinked once, but said nothing.

“Full pardon and restoration of status for Evan Rosier and Barty Crouch Junior.”
He smiled slightly. “You know they were with me. Without them, the Horcruxes would still be out there- And Pandora Rosier,” he added, casually, like mentioning a tea order. “She hasn’t done a thing against your precious Order, but… well. You lot tend to judge in advance.”

Albus’s mouth drew a line.
“You expect full reintegration for former sympathizers?”

Regulus’s eyes glinted. “I expect fairness. And gratitude.” Then, with a lift of his brow- “You’re the one who always said Slytherin house deserved better.”

Albus exhaled slowly through his nose.
That earned a flicker of something in Albus’s expression — surprise, maybe. Respect.
But Regulus wasn’t finished.
“One more thing,” he said evenly, almost as an afterthought — but Albus knew better than to believe anything Regulus Black did was accidental.
“A permanent seat on the Wizengamot for the werewolf community.”

Albus’s brow furrowed.
“Werewolves?”

Regulus nodded. “Some of them fought beside me. Quietly. Without glory. And without asking for anything in return.” He paused, then added, “They saved my life more than once.”

Albus said nothing, waiting.

“And while he wasn’t part of the operations,” Regulus continued, “there’s one I trust to represent them. Remus Lupin.” There was something deliberate in the way he said the name — calm, certain, but with weight.
“Not because he’s Sirius’s partner, I'm not biased- especially not about him.” Regulus clarified. “But because he’s level-headed. Respected. And he knows what it means to be invisible in a room full of power.”

The wind shifted again, colder now.
Albus regarded him for a long moment.
“You ask a great deal.”

Regulus didn’t hesitate. “I earned it. Don't you think?”
His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “And I don’t ask. I expect collaboration. Unless, of course, you’d prefer the public know everything. Every name. Every Horcrux. Every betrayal ignored while I did your work for you.”

Albus’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“You sound like a politician already,” he murmured.

Regulus tilted his head, expression unreadable.
“No. Just a survivor who’s done being obedient.”

For a while, Albus didn’t speak.
The wind moved around them like a question unasked.
Then, finally — quietly, and not with suspicion, but with something closer to awe — he said- “How did you do it?”

Regulus turned, just slightly. Not surprised. He waited—quiet, deliberate. Let Albus say the whole of it.

“How did you find the strength?” Albus asked, voice low, like he feared the answer.
“Where did you even begin? To seek them. To destroy them. To keep going.”
A pause, long enough to feel like judgment.
“I’ve studied dark magic my entire life, and even I never dared to try.”
His gaze sharpened. “Just how, Regulus? Voldemort wasn’t a fool—and yet you destroyed him.” He hesitated, then asked the thing that weighed most heavily.
“What did it cost you? To your soul?”

Regulus was quiet for a beat longer. Then he let out a short, breathless laugh — not kind, not cruel. Just tired. “You assume I had a choice.”

Albus blinked, but said nothing.

“You think I woke up one day and decided to be brave?” Regulus asked, voice low. Sharp. He shook his head slowly. “I didn’t find strength. I didn’t look for it. I had nothing left to lose, and no one left to lie to.”

He stepped closer to the edge of the tower, eyes on the horizon.

“My parents made me a weapon. The only family I had left-" Regulus chuckled- "abandoned me and then the war tried to make me a ghost. So I became something else.” Another breath. This one calmer.
“I didn’t do it because I believed in the Light. I did it because I knew what was coming. And I couldn’t die knowing I had done nothing to stop it.”

He turned back to Albus. “I did it because no one else did.”
And for the first time since the conversation began, his voice softened. Just a little.
“And maybe…” he added, quieter now, “because I wanted to live long enough to be seen past that the usual mask of a death eater.”

“It wasn’t strength,” he said at last. “It was clarity. Or maybe resignation. The certainty I was going to die either way.”
He paused. “The rest just followed.”

Their conversation was done. The wind had shifted again — less biting now, more restless, like the tower itself was tired of listening.
Regulus turned toward the stairs, the sky behind him already melting into night.
His boots echoed on stone as he walked, cloak brushing the floor with silent defiance.

But just before he reached the first step, he stopped. Turned back. Chin lifted. Eyes narrowed. “One last thing.”

Albus looked up, mildly expectant.

Regulus’s voice was smooth again, but with a hint of something more fragile underneath — not weakness, but a desire. “If you can keep my involvement private…” he said, casual but clear, “I’d appreciate it.”

A pause.

“I hate everything that comes with it. The eyes. The press. The expectations. I didn’t do it for applause.”

Albus raised an eyebrow. Slowly. “And yet,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly, “you became exactly what the world applauds.”

Regulus scowled.
“Don’t start.”

Albus chuckled — actual amusement. Dry, unexpected.
“Oh, Regulus,” he said, rising now with the kind of grace that came only from age and knowing. “The world loves a hero. And you, despite everything… chose to become one.”

Regulus stared at him. Disbelief. Disgust. “Fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, turning on his heel and disappearing down the steps.

“Language,” Albus called after him, tone impeccably polite.

But he was alone now. And for the first time in decades, he allowed himself a real, unguarded smile — small, quiet, and laced with wonder.

3

They gathered in the square. From every corner of the magical world — from Devon to Dublin, from forest clearings to broken Ministry halls — they came.
Aurors. Healers. Teachers. Students. Families holding photos of the dead.
Children clinging to the hems of tired robes.
Survivors standing beside ghosts they didn’t yet know how to name.

The war was over. Or so they’d heard.

Whispers had spread like wildfire through the Floo networks, through owls, through old friends and broken enemies alike:
Voldemort is gone. He’s dead. It’s done.

But no one believed it.
Not fully. Not until Albus Dumbledore said it himself.

He stood on the steps of what was left of the Ministry — the building fractured, its symbols singed by fire, but still there.

Still standing.

The sky above was overcast, the kind of grey that made sound feel heavier.
And the air was quiet in that strange, expectant way — as if the world was holding its breath.

Albus stepped forward. Slowly. His hands folded. His robe still charred at the sleeve.
No flash, no flair. Just truth.
He looked out at them — hundreds, maybe thousands — and let the silence stretch for just a moment longer.

Then, clearly: “It is finished.”
A ripple moved through the crowd — not cheers. Not gasps. Just breath.
Exhaled. Held. Believed.
“Voldemort has fallen. The dark that held us hostage is broken. The curse is lifted.” A woman began to cry, quietly. Someone else dropped to their knees.
“But peace,” he continued, “will not come from silence. Nor from vengeance. It will come from how we rebuild.”

He glanced once, almost imperceptibly, toward the edge of the crowd — where a dark-haired figure stood in shadow. Watching. And gone in the blink of an eye.

“A new era begins today. One shaped not by fear, but by choice. One where all voices — pureblood and muggleborn, Slytherin and Gryffindor, werewolf and wizard — must be heard.”

He didn’t say Regulus Black’s name. He didn’t need to.
But in the way he spoke, in the weight behind the words, in the promise of change —
everyone felt it.

The war was over. The world had cracked open.

And now — they would see what rose from the ruins.
For a moment, there was silence. And then — a voice from the crowd, raw and demanding:

“Who?” Heads turned. Faces searched. The cry had come from somewhere near the front — a young witch with dirt on her cheeks and her wand still bandaged to her arm.

“Who ended it?” she called again. “Was it you, Albus? Who we have to thank?”
More murmurs followed. Then voices. Then the pressure of a truth withheld.

“Who brought him down?”
“We deserve to know—”
“Say their name!”

Albus stood still. Very still. His eyes closed for half a breath. When he opened them, they were not tired — they were certain. “No,” he said clearly, his voice cutting through the air like a spell. “It was not me.” A rustle of shock, confusion. Someone gasped.

“Then who?”
“Tell us!”

Albus looked out at them, and for the briefest second — he hesitated.
Then he turned his head, just slightly, to the left. His eyes found the edge of the crowd. The shadows. And there — half-concealed behind a crumbled statue of Salazar Slytherin, coat dark, hair pulled back, face unreadable —
stood Regulus Arcturus Black.

Not alone.

Evan Rosier stood to his right, watchful. Barty Crouch Jr. to his left, sharp-eyed and still. None of them moved. But it was Regulus who met Albus’s gaze.
It was Regulus who gave the slightest shake of his head — a no, soft and warning.

But Albus held his gaze. And he knew. The crowd waited.
And then, slowly, Albus turned back to them.
His voice steady. Measured. And irrevocable.

“It was Regulus Black.” The words dropped like lightning into still water.
The square erupted — gasps, disbelief, someone laughing in pure shock. A man dropped his wand. A child stared, mouth open.

“Regulus?”
“But he was a Death Eater—”
“He’s alive?”
“He’s a Black!”

The words hit the crowd like thunder — not noise, but force. Disbelief cracked across the gathering like lightning.

“A Black?”
“That can’t be right—”
“I thought he was dead—”
“He was one of them!”

“The Black heir?” someone shouted. “Wasn’t it Sirius?”

“No, it’s always been Regulus—he was the younger—he disappeared—”

“This is a lie, right? He was a Death Eater. A real one.”

The crowd surged, voices overlapping, questions flying like spells in the dark. People turned, looked, pointed — some toward Albus, some wildly scanning the square, hoping to spot him. Hoping not to.

And Regulus stood still in the shadows, unmoved — but he could feel it, now.
The press of a thousand eyes he hadn’t yet seen. The weight of his name in a hundred mouths that had never spoken it kindly. The inevitability of it all.

Within hours, they would know everything.
They would dig. They would drag out the past — the family, the mark, the scars, the disappearances, the silence. He was no longer the ghost in the back of the war.
He was the name on its ending.

And across the square — Sirius. He hadn’t moved. He couldn't believe it.
His borther.
His little brother.
A war hero.
A- a war- hero? The one who defeated Voldemort?

He stood frozen, surrounded by people, but completely alone.
His breath came in short, ragged pulls.
His hands trembled at his sides.

“No,” he whispered. “No. No no no.”

It wasn’t disbelief — it was refusal. It was a child’s prayer clawing its way out of an adult throat. His knees gave slightly, buckling under the weight of something he hadn’t let himself name in years — grief, guilt, memory — and he might’ve fallen, hard and graceless, if not for the hands that caught him.

Euphemia.

She was already there — how, he didn’t know. Maybe she’d seen it coming. Maybe she’d just known. But she moved to him without a flicker of hesitation, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if he hadn’t spent the last decade trying to pretend he didn’t need this.

Her arms were gentle but sure, one hand bracing his shoulder, the other lifting to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing a tear he didn’t remember letting fall.

“Sirius, love—”

But he didn’t let her finish. He folded into her like a man collapsing into himself. His fists clenched the soft fabric of her robes, clutching so tight they trembled. He pressed his face into her shoulder, breath ragged and fast and sharp like shattered glass. “It can’t be him,” he gasped, voice barely holding together. “He—he was gone. He left. He hated us—why him—what—how did—he’s my—he was—I need—I can’t—I—hero- our- our hero-”

“I can’t breathe—”

“Shh,” she whispered, wrapping her arms more tightly around him, grounding him to something warm and solid and undeniably present. Her hand slid up into his hair, combing through the tangled strands with quiet persistence — just like she used to do when he was sixteen, pacing the Potter kitchen in a storm of rage, knuckles raw and red from punching stone walls, eyes too wide and too haunted for a boy his age.

“It’s okay,” she said again, softer now, but no less certain. “Everything is going to be okay. I promise you, Sirius.”

He shook his head violently against her shoulder, his voice breaking, raw and cracked from emotion.
“But it’s him. You don’t get it, Mum—it’s him. Regulus. He’s not supposed to be here. I—I don’t know how to look at him, I don’t know what I’m supposed to say—he’ll hate me, he already hates me, I—”

“No,” she cut in, more firmly this time. She pulled back slightly to cup his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her eyes were steady, fierce with something that looked a lot like hope.
“He came back. For all of us. He fought. He survived. He did what most of us couldn’t. That matters, Sirius. It has to matter.”

“But what if it’s too late?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. His hands trembled where they gripped her sleeves, white-knuckled with the effort of holding himself together.

Euphemia leaned in and pressed her forehead to his, her breath warm, her voice a low murmur filled with both conviction and heartbreak.
“Then we make it not too late. You hear me? You are Sirius Black — the most stubborn, infuriating, relentless man I’ve ever met. If anyone can make this right, it’s you. And you’re not doing it alone. I believe in you. I believe in both of you.”

He clung to her like a man drowning — no longer trying to keep up appearances, no longer pretending he didn’t need this. Because he did. He always had.

“I don’t know what he is anymore,” Sirius rasped, his voice dissolving into something hoarse and jagged. “But they’re going to tear him apart. They already are. And I—God—he was just a kid. And I— I left him. I walked away. I never looked back.”

Euphemia tightened her hold again, arms around his shoulders, holding all of him — the anger, the guilt, the fear — like she had when he first showed up at their doorstep all those years ago.
“Then look back now, darling,” she whispered. “Look back. And go to him. Before the world decides for you what kind of brother you want to be.”

And Sirius broke. Not loudly. Not violently. But like something inside him had finally cracked — He wasn’t making sense anymore. His voice cracked like thin ice, breaking beneath the weight of years, of guilt, of things never said and moments that never came.
Euphemia didn’t try to stop the avalanche. She just held him tighter. Rocked him once, slow and grounding, the way she might’ve done when he was a boy lost in thunder.

And all around them, the world kept spinning.

The great hall still buzzed with fractured voices, confusion rippling like heat waves off stone. People shouted, whispered, tried to piece together what had just happened — but none of it mattered.

Not to Sirius. Because out there — somewhere out there in that crowd, in that ruin of a battlefield-turned-sanctuary — Regulus Black had just saved them all.

And now—

Now the world would decide what to do with him. How to label him.
How to twist him into a story they could swallow.
Sirius felt it like a scream under his skin. The wrongness of it. The inevitability.

“I have to find him, Mum,” Sirius gasped, already pulling away, his hands trembling, his heart thundering in his chest. “I need to see him— I— I can’t let this—”

Euphemia reached out instinctively, fingers brushing his arm, but didn’t stop him. She didn’t need to. Her hands hovered in the air for half a breath before falling to her sides, surrendering to what she already knew was unstoppable.

“Go,” she said softly, her voice tight with feeling, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Go, love.”

And then Sirius ran.

He didn’t stop to think, didn’t wait for questions or guidance. He just moved. Urgent. Unsteady. Determined. Like if he ran fast enough, far enough, if he turned the right corner in time—maybe he could still find him. The shadow he once called a brother. The boy with a blade for a mouth and storms behind his eyes. The one he’d left behind and never really saw until it was almost too late.

His boots struck the stone floors hard, echoing through the quiet halls. Past the flickering sconces. Past empty bunks and scattered maps. Past the injured murmuring in their sleep. All blurred into noise, into fog.

Except him.

Just ahead, he caught the flick of a dark coat vanishing around a bend — familiar, unmistakable.

He followed it like a heartbeat.

Like a breath he’d forgotten to take.

Like a prayer whispered too late, and yet maybe — maybe — not too late at all.

Because if he didn’t find him now, if he didn’t say the words now, if he didn’t look him in the eyes now—

—he might never get another chance.

Chapter Text

The applause never came. And that, honestly, was fine by him.
Regulus walked slowly, calmly, away from the square — away from the crowd still reeling from the name Albus had just dropped like a blade between centuries.
His expression didn’t shift. Not when people turned to follow him with their eyes.
Not when someone called out his name and then didn’t dare say it again.

His jaw was set. His shoulders squared. His cloak fluttered behind him like smoke trying not to burn. He didn’t walk like a man proud of what he’d done — he walked like someone who had already accepted that it would never be enough.
Behind him, Evan kept pace easily, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning for any idiot brave enough to approach.
Barty, as always, walked slightly ahead, half-turned, a smirk blooming at the corner of his mouth like a secret he was dying to weaponize.

“Well,” Barty said, grinning like a cat who’d knocked over an entire bookshelf just to watch the chaos, “there goes your whole mysterious ‘recluse with a book in his hand’ persona.”

Regulus didn’t look at him. He was still staring ahead, jaw tight, posture deceptively calm. “I’m devastated,” he said flatly.

“Truly,” Evan chimed in, leaning lazily against a nearby lamppost like they were out for a stroll and not being followed by whispers, “the heartbreak of being publicly adored. How will you ever survive?”

Regulus exhaled through his nose — sharp, precise. Not a laugh, not quite. But his lips twitched. Barely. The movement was gone almost before it started, like even his amusement had learned to hide. “With neither of you speaking to me again, ideally.”

Barty clutched at his chest with exaggerated horror, eyes wide. “So cruel. And after we helped you kill an immortal dark lord. Honestly, the betrayal. It cuts deeper than the Basilisk fang.”

Evan rolled his eyes dramatically and pushed off the lamppost with theatrical flair. “I’m going to have to start introducing him as our emotionally unavailable war trophy. This is what we liberated from the crypts of doom, ladies and gentlemen. Moody silence and thinly veiled contempt.”

Regulus gave them both a look. Dry. Flat. But not cold — not where it mattered. It was the look of someone pretending not to be fond of them because the alternative felt too dangerous. “Don’t make me leave you in an alley,” he said, tone so dry it could’ve been preserved in salt.

“You wouldn’t,” Evan replied, bumping shoulders with him — light, familiar, grounding. “You’d miss us too much.”

Barty leaned in close behind them, voice sing-song. “He’s already missing us. Look at that face. That’s the face of a man suffering the unbearable burden of friendship.”

Regulus finally allowed the corner of his mouth to lift — not quite a smile, but enough to betray him. “You’re both insufferable.”

“And yet,” Evan said, tossing an arm loosely around his shoulders, “you still haven’t run off screaming. That’s basically a love confession, Reg.”
They walked in silence for a few steps, and the sounds of the crowd behind them grew softer — replaced by wind, by space, by the hush that always followed something irreversible.

Regulus flexed his fingers once at his side. Then again. A slow, near-imperceptible movement, like testing the edges of a wound to see if it still hurt. He didn’t speak, didn’t shift his expression, but they saw it. Of course they did. Barty and Evan always noticed the things he didn’t say. The way his fingers moved — not in habit, but in tension. It was something he’d started doing unconsciously after the war, when things got too loud or too close, when the ground felt less like stone and more like smoke. He hated it — hated that it had become a tell, a crack in the armor he worked so hard to keep sealed.

He was supposed to be composed. Controlled. He was someone who worked in the shadows, whose name meant more in whispers than in headlines. He liked it that way — preferred the hush of libraries and empty corridors to the chaos of being seen. But now? Now his name was in every mouth, his face on enchanted posters. The crowd earlier had chanted like they knew him, like they’d earned him. He couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t manage the narrative, couldn’t control what was being said or what might happen next — and the very idea made something cold coil under his ribs.

He swallowed hard, throat tight. It’s fine. You’re fine. Just words. Just people. Just attention. Except it wasn’t fine, and they knew it.

It was basically what his friends — the insufferable, loyal, unshakable bastards — had started calling PTSD in that half-joking, half-serious way they used for everything too heavy to carry properly. Regulus never confirmed it. He wouldn’t give it a name. As if naming it would give it power, or worse — make it real. But the truth sat between them anyway, wordless and undeniable. Not that they ever pushed him to say it. They never asked. They just stayed. And that, somehow, made it harder to ignore and easier to bear all at once.

Barty glanced sideways, the grin on his face still playful but his eyes a fraction softer now. Evan’s arm didn’t leave his shoulders. Neither said anything. They didn’t need to.

Regulus let his fingers curl into a fist, slow and deliberate. Then he let go.

Barty glanced sideways, voice quieter now. “Really though- You alright?”
Regulus didn’t answer. But he gave the smallest nod. And they didn’t push.

“Regulus!” The voice cracked through the quiet like a curse. Too sharp, too familiar. It rang through the street like a bell that had once tolled for punishment, not celebration. "Regulus, wait!"

He stopped walking. His whole body stilled — not with grace, but like something hit from behind. His shoulders locked, breath halting mid-chest. His jaw clenched, his eyes closed. Tight. Like he could shut the sound out. Like that might somehow rewind time five seconds and let him take a different turn.

Please, no.
Oh no—please make me disappear.

He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud — or maybe only half-said it, a desperate whisper more to the wind than to his friends. But Barty heard him anyway.

Barty rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle he didn’t fall over. “It’s too late for that, Reg,” he drawled, cheerful and utterly unhelpful, “but I do have other suggestions.”

Regulus didn’t move. “As if,” he muttered, low and venomous, “without harming or killing my brother, Barty.”

“Pity,” Barty said with a sigh. “You’re limiting my creativity.”

But Regulus wasn’t listening anymore. Because he already knew. Of course he knew.
He’d know that voice anywhere — even now, after everything. Especially now. It had shaped entire years of his life, carved paths through his decisions, haunted dreams he pretended not to remember. No matter how far he’d come, it clung like smoke to his lungs.

His heart thudded once, hard, and his palms had gone clammy.
He turned. Slowly. Deliberately. As if bracing for impact.

And there he was.

Sirius.

Looking as loud and furious and inevitable as ever.
Sirius was running toward him, eyes wild, breath ragged. His hair was a mess, his robes uneven, and his whole body moved like it didn’t know whether to fight or collapse.

Regulus stood still. Face neutral. Chin high.
The echo of every shield he’d ever built behind his eyes.
“You really came all this way just to catch your breath dramatically?” Regulus asked, voice cool, almost amused, as he stood amidst the ruins like he belonged there — like the place had been waiting for him to return in ash and silence.

Sirius stopped just a few feet away, hunched slightly, panting like he’d run the whole way — which he had.

“I—fuck, I didn’t—” he started, then stopped. And stared. Just stared.
Like Regulus was a ghost risen from the stone and soot. Like something ancient carved out of marble, motionless and too real to make sense.
“You’re real,” Sirius whispered. It wasn’t awe, exactly. It was disbelief laced with fear. As if saying it out loud might make Regulus vanish again.

Regulus’s eyes narrowed. “Impressive deduction.”

Behind him, Barty snorted and muttered something under his breath — until Evan promptly kicked him in the shin without even looking.
“Idiots,” Regulus murmured, without affection but also without malice, and then looked back at Sirius. “What are you doing here?”

Sirius took a step forward. Then another. Regulus didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
It was okay. It was Sirius. His idiotic brother. He could manage that.
“I heard it was you,” Sirius said, breath catching just slightly in his throat. “I—I had to see for myself.”

Regulus tilted his head, a small, sharp motion. “Of course. You’d only speak to me if I’d killed a Dark Lord. Anything less would’ve been beneath you.”

Sirius winced. “That’s not—”

“No?” Regulus asked, tone even, hands still at his sides. “Then when were you planning to speak to me again? My funeral, maybe? Or would you have sent James to do it for you?”

“That’s not fair,” Sirius said softly.

Regulus scoffed. “You’re right. Fairness hasn’t exactly been our strong suit, has it?”

Sirius swallowed hard, looking down at the floorboards, then up again — almost shy, like he was twelve years old and trying to steal back something he’d thrown away.
“I didn’t know how to find you,” he admitted. “I didn’t even know if you were alive until last week. And I didn’t come because you killed someone. I came because—” He stopped. Licked his lips. “Because I heard you saved everyone.”

Regulus’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I came because I’m your brother,” Sirius said. And for a second — just one — Regulus blinked like something had hit too close to where it hurt. Like he might say something honest.

He just breathed in, slow and controlled, and said, “Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

Sirius stepped forward again. Close now. Closer than he had any right to be. “I never stopped being your brother.”

“Oh but this is a blatant lie, isn't it?” Regulus snapped, suddenly fierce. “You ignored me for years. I stopped being your brother the day you walked out the door. I was just the kid who stayed behind. The traitor. The coward. The puppet. The killer.”

“Oh please Regulus- You don’t know what it was like!” Sirius burst out. “You didn’t see what they did to me, to all of us—”

“You didn’t care what they did to me!” Regulus shot back, his voice rising, sharp like a blade finally unsheathed. “You never even asked. So please go and fuck off if you're here for your pity party!"

Sirius flinched. Hard.

Regulus stepped forward now, eyes blazing.
“You never wrote. You never tried. You were too busy being free, being loud, being everything I wasn’t allowed to be. I was rotting in that house and you just—vanished.”

“That’s not true!” Sirius shouted. “I wrote to you. I wrote every year. On your birthday. At Christmas. I wrote and wrote and—”

“I never got a single one.” The words landed like a blow. They both stopped. "Since you went to Hogwarts I've never received a single- fucking letter from you."

Sirius blinked, tears caught in the corners of his eyes.

“I sent them.” Regulus shook his head, slower now.
The anger was still there — but it was cracked. Leaking something quieter beneath it.

“Then they burned them. Or hid them. Or maybe you just never meant them in the first place.”

“Don’t say that,” Sirius whispered. “Please—don’t. I wrote- I told everyone about you, about my little brother, about the things I wanted to do with him. I wrote to you about me, about Hogwarts you can't tell me that- that I never thought about you. Because it's not true and I can't accept it.”

Regulus looked away for the first time. "Well- it's too late now, it means that things were never meant for us." He swallowed. “You don’t get to chase me down now, Sirius. Not because I made it out. Not because I made something of the ruin they left behind. Not because I become this- this fucking war hero.”

Sirius reached out — but didn’t touch him. His hand hovered.

“You’re my brother.”

Regulus laughed once. It sounded broken.“No,” he said.
“I’m the reminder of everything you tried to forget.” Regulus turned, ready to leave again. The square was long behind them now, the shadows thicker, the world quieter.

But Sirius followed. Still there. Still breathing like he didn’t know how to stop.
“I left everything,” Sirius said, voice cracking. “Everything I hated in that house — I burned it down in my own mind just to survive.”

Regulus stopped mid-step. His shoulders tensed.
He didn’t look back. “Then thank you,” he said bitterly. “For leaving me in it.”

Sirius winced, like the words had clawed something open.
“You didn’t do anything,” he whispered. “Never- you only listened to them, nodding, obeying, making me feel hopeless, broken, alone.”

Regulus turned around now, fully.
Eyes bright with fury and something deeper beneath.
“I was a fucking child, Sirius.” His voice shook as he said it, sharp and certain. “I was a scared little boy in a house that smelled like poison and prayers, and you— you were my only way out. And you walked away.”

Sirius’s breath hitched. He looked down at his hands like he couldn’t recognize them anymore. “I was a child too,” he said, rough, shaking. “I was scared, and angry, and—yes, I ran. I walked out that door and I never looked back because if I did I would’ve broken into pieces.”
He met Regulus’s eyes now, raw and vulnerable.
“But I watched you. Every day. Standing in the hallway. Standing still. And I hated myself for leaving you in it.”

Regulus looked at him, chest rising and falling in short, fractured breaths.
He didn’t speak right away.

Then, lower, almost cruel- “If this is what you came for—some emotional purge to make you feel better—save it.” His voice wavered only once. “You don’t get to come back now that I’ve turned out to be someone else.”

Sirius stepped forward, not close enough to touch, but closer than before.
His hands were open, like even he didn’t know what to do with them.
“I’m here now,” he said. “Not because you’re a hero. Not because it’s over. But because I finally can be.” He swallowed. “I want to know my brother. The one I left behind because I was too damn coward to look at him.”

Regulus stared at him.
Long and silent. The night wind stirred his hair. His hands curled at his sides.
Sirius stood there, hands open, face cracked wide with everything he had never said, and the world felt too quiet around them — like it was holding its breath, waiting for a reunion that might never come.

But then— “You don’t get to do this.” The voice cut like a blade.
Barty. Sharp and cold, stepping forward, eyes narrowed like twin daggers.
He moved between them without hesitation, planting himself just in front of Regulus, his voice low but lethal.

“You don’t get to show up now, all full of feelings, just because the world’s stopped burning. You weren’t there when it mattered. And now you want in?”

Sirius recoiled a step — not from the words, but from the truth in them.
He opened his mouth—

“Bartemius Crouch” It wasn’t Regulus who interrupted.
It was James Potter. He had been standing at a distance — watching, listening, not interfering. But now, he stepped forward. Just once. His tone was firm, steady.
“Stay out of it.”

Barty narrowed his eyes.
“You don’t know what you’re defending.”

James didn’t flinch. “Maybe not. But this—” he gestured between the brothers, “this isn’t your fight.”

A tense silence followed. Regulus slowly lifted a hand, brushing his fingers just lightly across Barty’s arm. A quiet thank you. A quiet enough.
Then he looked at Sirius again.
His voice was quieter now. Not gentler — but frayed. Real.

“I don’t know if I want this.” Sirius’s breath caught. Regulus’s eyes flicked down, then back up again. "And I’m tired.” He said it like a confession.
“Everything hurts. Everything feels too loud. And I’m not sure there’s anything left between us worth fixing.”

Sirius took a step closer — one small, trembling step. “That’s not true regulus and you know this.”

But Regulus didn’t move. “Maybe-” he said softly. “But maybe I don’t have the strength to find out.” And for the first time since the name Regulus Black had been spoken aloud, Sirius didn’t chase him.

He just stood there.

“Well, that was more dramatic than expected.”
The voice came floating in like wind through an open window — light, crisp, and unmistakably amused.

They all turned.

Pandora Rosier was walking toward them with the grace of someone who had never rushed a day in her life. Long coat swaying, gold-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose, one hand holding a lemon tart from who-knew-where, and the other lifting in a lazy wave. “I leave you boys alone for ten minutes and someone nearly has a family reunion-slash-breakdown. Very on-brand.”

Barty groaned. “We tried to behave, she swears it.”

“Lie better,” Pandora said, sliding up beside Regulus with a teasing glance. “So. You’re famous now. How does it feel?”

“Like a migraine with better lighting,” Regulus muttered, not quite hiding his smirk.

Evan snorted. “At least now we’ll have to feed him properly. Public heroes can’t live on tea and spite alone.”

Pandora tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Technically, he’s still on our couch.”
Then added, with the innocence of a knife:
“Until we sort out something more permanent, that is.”

There was a pause. A glance.

Sirius didn’t react right away. He shifted his weight. Cleared his throat. Looked away — but not too far. “Couch?” he asked, too casually.
“Thought you still lived at Grimmauld.”

Regulus’s face didn’t change, but his eyes flicked, just once, toward Sirius.
“Burned,” he said flatly. “Like last month. Still have to see the ruins.”

A silence.

Pandora stepped in quickly. “We brought him in after that. Seemed safer. Plus, we needed someone to argue over book placements and tell Barty to stop stealing my silk shirts.”

“I only stole one,” Barty mumbled. “And it looked better on me.”

Evan laughed. “It really did.”

And in the strange comfort of that moment — the sarcasm, the ease, the truth tucked between old pain and new beginnings — others began to appear.
Lily first, hair swept back, cheeks still flushed from running.
Dorcas and Marlene right behind her, both slightly disheveled and alert, eyes scanning for threats or explanations or both.
And finally — Remus, calm but tired, gaze softening when it found Sirius.

Lily stopped when she saw the group, then blinked at Regulus.
“Oh,” she said. “So it really was you.”

Regulus gave a slow, ironic bow. “Surprise.”
Regulus’s eyes swept over the new arrivals, landing briefly on each face — Lily, Dorcas, Marlene, Remus. A flicker of something passed through his features: not quite affection, not disdain — just exhaustion wearing a beautiful mask.

He let the silence hang a moment longer, then exhaled slowly, folding his arms.
“Well,” he said, voice dry and smooth as ever, “you’ve all expressed your feelings, had your emotional climax—very moving, very dramatic.”

He tilted his head, gaze slightly narrowed, playful and distant at once.
“It’s been… charming to see everyone again. Or really not.”

Lily blinked, but smirked. Marlene let out a low whistle. Sirius stiffened.
Regulus continued, already turning on his heel. “Anyway. I have places to be.”

“Probably hiding from Rita Skeeter,” Barty muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Or from whatever lunatic decides to sell a tell-all memoir about him by tomorrow morning.”

Regulus actually snorted at that — short, sharp, real.
He shot Barty a sidelong look, amused.

“If I run into Rita Skeeter, I hope I’m armed.”
Then added under his breath, “This day already didn’t end well.”

They’d only taken a few steps after Regulus disappeared around the corner when Sirius spoke again. His voice was awkwardly loud, like he’d been holding it in for too long.

“You can live with me, you know.” Everyone stopped.

Remus blinked. “What?”

Sirius looked at him. Then the others. Then anywhere but at James.
“I mean—me. Us. We’ve got a room. It’s better than… I don’t know, a bloody couch.”

There was a pause. Then—
“How generous,” came Regulus’s voice, sharp as ever, as he reappeared around the edge of the alley like he’d never left.
His arms were folded again. His eyebrow raised.
“Is this your redemption arc now? Saving me from my tragic upholstery situation?”

Remus burst out laughing — a real, full laugh, head tilted back slightly.
“You have to admit, it did sound a little thrown together.”

Sirius flushed. “Alright, fine! Maybe not that. But—but-er”
He turned to Regulus, suddenly more serious, but still awkward. “What if we went away?”

Regulus blinked. “Excuse me- What the actual fuck? Sirius are you having a stroke?”

“A vacation,” Sirius said, louder now, hands spread like he was announcing a revolutionary idea. “Somewhere quiet. Peaceful. You, me, Remus, James. And whoever else wants to come. Lily, Marls-”

“I’d rather die,” Regulus muttered, deadpan.

“You could bring Barty and Evan,” Sirius added quickly, like a kid offering candy to an angry cat. "And Pandora! I would love to have her!" Pandora smacked a kiss with her hand and Sirius smirked. “We could go to the Potter beach house or whatever—if James is okay with it.”

James, from behind them, raised a brow.
“I guess I don’t get a vote in this?”

Regulus didn’t even blink. “A vacation,” he repeated, like the word tasted offensive.

Sirius nodded, undeterred.“Yeah. Just a few weeks away. The Potter beach house, maybe. Some quiet, some drinks. Bit of sun, even.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow so high it could’ve escaped his face.
“So you want me to voluntarily lock myself in a house with you, a werewolf, and four emotionally unstable Gryffindors… on sand?”

“You make it sound like a horror movie,” Remus muttered.

“Isn’t it?” Regulus replied, without missing a beat.

James stifled a snort. Lily openly laughed. Sirius sighed, but there was no frustration in it. Only hope. “Just think about it,” he said, softer now. “We’re going. Probably with the girls. It’ll be… a kind of celebration.”
He looked at Regulus, really looked.
“And I’d like you there.”

Regulus held his gaze for a second too long. Then he turned.
“Have fun with your sand,” he said, dry as a drought. “Try not to cry when someone forgets the sunscreen.” And he walked off again, coat flicking dramatically behind him, as if every step was perfectly timed for an audience.

But as Barty and Evan followed him, Pandora lingered. She turned back to the group, smiling over her shoulder — eyes gleaming, voice light.
“We’ll think about it honey.”
She winked. And then she was gone.

2

The front door slammed behind them as James stormed into the foyer, cloak half-off and frustration all over his face.
“Dude—what the actual fuck?”

Sirius blinked, mid-step, like he’d just been shaken out of a dream. “What?”

James turned on him, arms outstretched, voice rising. “A vacation? Seriously? You invited Regulus to a vacation? As in your estranged brother Regulus? The one that could barely stand us? In Spain? At our beach house?”

“Technically,” Sirius mumbled, “I said I’d ask you first. I just… did it in reverse order.”

James threw his hands up. “Unbelievable.”

Remus walked in behind them, calm as ever, tossing his scarf over the hook by the door. “No- hey I understand. He panicked,” he said simply. “He wanted to offer Reg a place to stay, got rejected, and countered with the only thing more dramatic than moving in together: a group retreat in a foreign country.”

“I didn’t panic,” Sirius muttered. "It's called quick thinking, plan B, whatever-"

Remus raised an eyebrow. “You offered your estranged brother a seaside intervention with cocktails. That’s panic.”

James turned to him. “And we just let him?” He passed a hand through his hair and Remus chuckled while Sirius panicked even more. "This will go to shit"

Remus shrugged, grinning. “I wasn’t about to get between Sirius Black and his identity crisis. That’s a death sentence.”

Before James could argue further, they entered the kitchen — and stopped short.
The smell hit them first: roasted garlic, warm bread, something buttery and slightly sweet. Then they saw the table.

Euphemia Potter stood by the stove, sleeves rolled up, wand stirring something in midair while she folded napkins with one hand and inspected the wine selection with the other.

The table was covered. Absolutely covered — every inch of the old, scarred wood hidden beneath an overflowing spread of stews thick with spices, golden-crusted tarts still warm from the oven, loaves of bread torn open to reveal their soft insides, grilled vegetables charred just enough to bring out their sweetness, and pies — gods, pies — both savoury and sweet, their edges delicate and browned to perfection. The air was thick with the scent of rosemary, roasted garlic, and something buttery and nostalgic that clung to the senses like a memory you hadn’t quite remembered you’d lost.

“Oh good, you’re home,” she said brightly, appearing from the kitchen with a dish towel still slung over her shoulder and a wooden spoon in hand like a wand. There was flour on her cheek and a smear of something—jam? sauce?—on the hem of her jumper. “I thought we’d have something special. You know — the whole ‘saving the world’ thing.”

Her voice carried a kind of practiced cheer, bright but never forced. When she turned to face them fully, the smile she wore was real — soft and welcoming — but her eyes betrayed her. They were warm, yes, but rimmed with the kind of tiredness that sleep didn’t fix. A deeper kind of exhaustion. The kind you earned.

Because everyone in that room, everyone who made it back, had lost something. Some had lost people, others pieces of themselves. Some had left whole parts of their hearts behind on muddy battlefields or in shattered corridors they’d never walk again. And her face — kind as it was — showed it. In the lines that hadn’t been there last spring. In the way her shoulders sagged once no one was looking. In the way she kept glancing at the door, as though expecting someone else who wouldn’t arrive.

Still, she smiled. Still, she cooked.

Because sometimes, after war, you didn’t need a speech. You just needed a full table, the smell of rosemary, and someone waiting by the door to say welcome home without needing to say the words.
“So what’s all the fuss, darling?”

James ran a hand through his hair, defeated.
“Mum… Sirius invited everyone to our beach house. Can we go? ”

Euphemia blinked. “Everyone?”

“Everyone,” James repeated, rolling his eyes. “Regulus. His sassy death squad. The whole gang. I can't believe it.”

Sirius lifted a hand sheepishly. “Err- Surprise?”

Euphemia looked at them. Then at the table. Then she shrugged.
“Why not?” she said simply. “You’ve been through hell and back. You deserve a little sun. A little rest. A little insanity. You're twenty and I want you to- go away a little?” She smirked. “Besides, I already cleaned the house last summer. Someone might as well enjoy it.”

James groaned. Remus grinned. Sirius looked like he might cry. Just a little.
He then lingered near the kitchen doorway, half-leaning against the frame, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his jumper.
Euphemia had gone to fetch more plates. Remus had followed her, probably to keep her from transfiguring the entire pantry into decorative centerpieces.
James was still standing at the edge of the kitchen, arms crossed loosely, face unreadable.

Sirius cleared his throat.

“So…” he said. “It’s okay if Regulus comes too?”

Before James could answer, a new voice entered the room.

“I’d like to meet him, actually.” Monty Potter, with his soft-spoken steadiness and always-slightly-surprised eyebrows, stepped in carrying a stack of clean glasses.
“If half the things I’ve heard today are true, that young man deserves more than recognition. He deserves a proper seat at the table.”

He set the glasses down, looking at James with quiet certainty.
“We’re here today thanks to him, right?” he said, voice a little rougher now, a little more human. “I—” He stopped, shook his head, and let out a breath. “I was speechless. I didn’t expect it. He’s so young, but—”

He glanced down, adjusting the row of glasses again even though they didn’t need adjusting. It gave him a second to gather himself.
“—but we’ll never judge a book by its cover, right? That’s what we taught you.” He looked back at James, gentler now. “That’s what we believe. So if this boy — Regulus — if he really did what they say he did… then he’s welcomed here.”
He nodded, slow and certain.

And with that, he turned back toward the kitchen, his hand lingering just briefly on James’s shoulder in passing — a simple gesture, but one that said everything a father needed to say.

James rolled his eyes, more at the sheer inevitability of the praise than the content.
“Great. Another one added to the Regulus Black fan club.”

Sirius grinned, lanciando un’occhiata quasi provocatoria. “You’re just jealous everyone loves him more than you now.”
James let out a soft snort, one of those low, nasal sounds that meant I’m not admitting it, but I heard you. He didn’t argue. He didn’t have to. The truth, or some version of it, was probably lingering somewhere in the silence between them.
Sirius’s grin faded, just a little. His spine straightened like he was bracing himself for something, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter — not unsure, but gentler. More real.

“I know you two never really got along.”

James raised an eyebrow, curious now. “We didn’t hate each other.”

“No,” Sirius said, with a soft huff that almost passed for a laugh. “You aren’t able to hate even a buzz.” James smirked faintly, but let it pass.
“You just… didn’t click,” Sirius continued, choosing his words with a care he rarely showed. “And that’s okay. I don’t expect you to fake anything.”

He hesitated, and when he spoke again, his words were layered with something James recognized immediately — that tone. The one Sirius used when pretending not to care too much about something he clearly did.

“I just… I don’t want this to be weird. If you don’t want to come, we don’t have to go. Really. Don’t worry about me.”

James stared at him. Really looked at him.
Saw through the casual lean against the counter, the forced calm in his shoulders, the shrug that tried to make it all seem breezy and easy. Saw past the words to the truth beneath them — the flicker of hope that Sirius was trying to swallow, the one clinging to the edge of his voice like a child’s hand.

And James sighed. Long and low. “You want to go,” he said softly. “You want this to be good.” Sirius didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
His eyes dropped for half a second, then rose again, mouth set like he was trying not to ask for too much.

James looked away, stared out the window like the glass might offer him clarity, then back to his brother. And he nodded.
“Of course I’ll come.”

Sirius blinked. His head tilted, just slightly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Really?”

James smiled — not wide, not bright, but true. “Really. I’m not going to make you do this alone.”

For a moment, Sirius didn’t move. Then, like the tension had been loosened all at once, he let out a quiet breath — almost a laugh, almost a sigh — and nodded.
“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Okay. Wonderful- well- we'll have fun James. I promise.”

James gave him a look. “Yeah- I’ll hang with the girls, maybe sneak off with Remus for drinks, throw Evan in the sea if he tries to charm my shirt off—” He smirked. “But yeah. I’ll be there.”

Sirius exhaled — relief rushing through him so hard it nearly tipped him sideways.

“Thanks, really- Prongs.”

James shook his head, running a hand through his hair like it might somehow straighten out the thoughts tangled behind his eyes.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, voice low but steady. “We don’t even know if he’ll come.”

There was a pause — not long, but heavy. He glanced toward the window, where the sun was starting to sink just a little, casting long shadows over the floorboards. The kind of light that made everything look golden and uncertain. Like maybe it could all still go wrong.
“I just—” he hesitated, then pressed on, “I don’t want you to suffer because of it. So Sirius—”

His eyes found his brother’s, and this time he didn’t look away.
“—I accept. I’ll try. For you. But you don’t have to expect anything from this, alright?” His voice cracked ever so slightly, just enough to make the words real. “Promise me.”

Across from him, Sirius let out a laugh — a soft, almost amused huff of breath that didn’t reach his eyes. “Always so dramatic,” he murmured, lips curled in a half-smile.

But it wasn’t a real laugh. Not really. It was the kind of sound you made to fill a space that might otherwise collapse under the weight of something unspoken. Because the truth — the jagged, quiet truth — was lodged somewhere between his ribs. He was expecting something. Of course he was. He’d been waiting for this longer than he’d ever admit, and the fear of hoping too much had never really stopped him from doing it anyway.

So he chuckled. Because it was easier. But James saw through it. He always did.
And for a moment, neither of them said anything. Just stood there, side by side in a room that felt suddenly too quiet, the murmur of voices in the next room dimmed like someone had turned down the volume on the world.

Then Sirius spoke again — softer this time.

“I’m not expecting anything,” he said. “I’m just… hoping.”
And it was the truth. Not the whole truth, maybe, but enough for now.

3

The house stood like a skeleton.
Grimmauld Place — once proud, once immovable — now loomed like the ghost of itself. Blackened brick scorched from spellfire, shattered windows gaping like vacant eyes. Ivy had overrun the stone, crawling up the façade in wiry, tangled veins, twisting through the mortar like it was trying to hold the house together — or pull it under.
The front door hung half off its hinges, creaking with the wind’s breath, and when Regulus pushed it open, it let out a long, low groan like something in pain.

Regulus stepped inside.

What used to be the front hallway stretched before him in fragments. The ornate runner that had once lined the floor — dark red, gold-threaded — had burned away in places, curled like dried leaves. His boots crunched softly over splintered wood, pieces of the banister, and shards of forgotten glass. The chandelier that had once glimmered in cold perfection above the entryway now lay in ruins, crystals dulled by soot and time.

He stood there a moment, letting the stillness sink into his bones. Dust swirled with every breath, stirred by the weight of his presence alone. But the air wasn’t warm. There was no hearth, no life. Only the dry, stale scent of abandonment. The walls had stopped holding memory a long time ago — now they only held silence.

He moved slowly, like the place might collapse under the weight of recognition.

A part of him had wanted this — for it to be wrecked, ruined, uninhabitable. It made it easier, somehow. To know that the house that had broken him could no longer stand with its false grandeur. That the darkness had eaten itself alive from the inside out.

And yet—

And yet, as he passed the cracked remains of the mirror where he used to catch glimpses of his reflection — of a boy trying to become someone, anyone, else — something sharp twisted in his chest. Not grief. Not exactly. Just… something old and unfinished. He let out a slow breath, steadying his fingers at his side. The familiar flex. Once. Then again. One last time.

Still there.

Always there.

Regulus didn’t speak. There was no one to hear him. But in the silence, he heard it anyway — his own name, echoing off the ruined stone and scorched wallpaper like a memory refusing to be buried.

And he kept walking.

Barty walked just behind him, arms crossed. Evan kept flicking ash from an unlit cigarette he never intended to smoke. Pandora trailed a step behind them all, coat fluttering faintly as she moved.

“So…” Barty said, breaking the silence. “Are we going to Spain or not?”

Regulus didn’t even turn around.

“Absolutely not.”

Evan raised an eyebrow. “Bit dramatic, even for you.”

Regulus turned just enough to glare at him.
“I am not lounging on a beach with Sirius Black, Lily Evans, and four half-naked Gryffindors singing muggle songs and braiding each other’s hair.”

Pandora snorted. “That’s incredibly specific.”
They reached the staircase — mostly intact — and Regulus ascended slowly, hand gliding over the ruined banister. Every step echoed with memory.

Barty leaned into Evan.
“That means he’s considered it.”

Evan nodded sagely.
“And probably imagined the hair braiding.”

“Shut up,” Regulus muttered, but there was no bite.

At the top of the stairs, they reached it:
his old room. Or what remained.

The wallpaper had peeled.
Not in one clean strip, but in jagged tears — like something had tried to claw its way out of the walls and given up halfway through. The bed frame was collapsed in on itself, a twisted skeleton of rusted iron and scorched fabric. Charred books lay scattered like wounded soldiers across the warped floorboards, their pages curled and blackened at the edges. A broken mirror hung sideways on the wall, cracked clean through the center — one half reflecting a sliver of light from the shattered window, the other absorbing it entirely.

Pandora stepped in first, careful where she placed her feet. Her eyes moved across the room with a softness the others didn’t match — not fear, not pity, but something slower, quieter. A kind of reverence. She didn’t speak right away. She didn’t have to. The silence of the place did most of the talking.

“This place feels haunted,” she whispered at last, voice just above a breath.

Regulus didn’t answer.

He stood in the doorway, framed by the ruin. Arms stiff at his sides. Jaw tight. His eyes didn’t follow hers. They didn’t scan the debris, didn’t check for danger or salvage. They were locked on one spot: the corner of the room. The one where his desk used to be.
There was nothing left now — just a square of floor untouched by soot, a hollow ghost of shape and purpose.

“You could say yes, you know,” Pandora said gently, almost as if afraid to scare him off.

Regulus blinked. It took a moment.
“To what?”

“The vacation.”

He scoffed, a dry sound that barely counted as a laugh. His eyes stayed on the corner. “Please don’t joke about things like that.”

“I’m not joking.”

The pause between them was small, but it felt like something that had to be crossed. A ravine cut out of old survival and new hesitation.
Regulus tilted his head slightly, but still didn’t meet her gaze.
“Since when do I get vacations?”

“Since you survived,” Pandora said simply.

His mouth twitched. A reaction, but not quite agreement. “Survived what?”

“Everything. And you perfectly know what” A beat. Regulus flexed his fingers at his side. Once. Then again. He hated when she spoke like that — like things were allowed to be over. Like healing was linear. Like you could just step out of the fire and call yourself free.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with a vacation,” he said after a moment. “Sit around and be useless?” Pandora turned toward him fully.

“You need a break, Reg,” she added. “Rest. Breathe. Maybe even laugh.”

“I don’t laugh.”

“You could.” He glanced at her then. Just for a second. Enough for her to see the edge of something in his eyes. Not anger. Not refusal. Just… weight.

“I wouldn’t know how, anymore” he murmured.
Pandora stepped closer, her boots crunching softly over blackened paper. She didn’t touch him, not yet. But she was close now — close enough that her presence warmed the air between them. "And then maybe- You’d be still a little bit miserable, yes. But also… less alone.”

Regulus didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

“And I know,” she added, voice lower now, “that you miss him.”

At that, he looked at her.

She held his gaze. Unflinching.
“Not what he did. Not the way he left. But him. You miss having a brother. And maybe — just maybe — you’d be happier with him in your life than out of it. He used to be your hero and your strength, always together.”

Regulus’s jaw tightened. He looked away again.
“Some doors are better left closed.”

Pandora didn’t argue.

But behind him, Evan murmured- “Some doors never actually closed, mate. You just stopped checking if they were unlocked.”

And silence fell again — thick, heavy, full of everything none of them were saying aloud. Pandora stepped around the collapsed desk, her boot nudging a warped floorboard. It creaked — then gave way slightly.

Something slid from beneath it, landing with a quiet clatter against the ash-dusted floor.

Glass.

Regulus crouched before the others could move — a swift, silent motion, like something instinctive had taken over. His fingers brushed the soot aside, movements precise, almost reverent, as though whatever had revealed itself might vanish if touched too roughly.

It was a frame — rectangular, burnished along the edges with heat damage, but miraculously intact. The silver was blackened in places, the back half melted enough that the corner looked warped. But the glass had held. Barely.

He turned it over.

A photo.
Old. The colours faded to soft pastels, corners singed, but still moving.

Him and Sirius.

France. Summer. Maybe eight and nine. He knew the year by the haircuts — Sirius’s too long and flopping in his face, his own too neat, parted with surgical precision by Walburga’s strict hand.

In the picture, Sirius was grinning wildly, caught mid-motion, pulling a ridiculous face — teeth bared, eyes scrunched, arms thrown up like he was dancing to music that no longer played. There was sun in the frame, and the glint of sea glass scattered in the sand behind them.

And beside him: Regulus.

More composed, of course. Always. But not frowning.
Not detached. Not cold.

No. In the split second the photo looped — just before Sirius knocked shoulders with him and burst out laughing — Regulus looked up at his brother and smiled. Really smiled. Not the polite, clipped expression his mother had trained into him. Not the sarcastic half-curl he wore as armour. This smile was small, yes. Subtle. But real. Unfiltered. Something light and fond flickered behind his eyes.

He stared at it, unmoving.

The others had fallen silent behind him. Even Barty. Even Evan. No sarcastic remark. No casual jab. Just quiet. Like they understood that this moment belonged to something older, something buried deep beneath layers of ash and silence.

Regulus didn’t blink. He held the frame with both hands, thumbs tracing the edges with a gentleness he hadn’t realized he still had. His heart beat slowly, like it was listening too. Like it remembered.

A gust of wind pushed through the broken window, stirring the dust, carrying the ghost of old salt air and forgotten summers. For just a second, Regulus could almost hear the gulls. The sea. His brother’s laugh — high and careless and full of something that used to be hope.

He pressed his lips together. His throat worked around a breath that didn’t quite leave. “I’d forgotten this,” he said, voice barely audible. “I didn’t even think we still had it.”

Pandora stepped closer, careful not to disturb the space around him. “Looks like the house held onto it for you.”

He almost smiled at that, but it never made it past his eyes.
There were a thousand things he could say.
A thousand memories curled around this single image.
But all he did was stand, slowly, and hold the photo to his chest for just a heartbeat too long.

Pandora watched from a distance, her arms folded gently over her chest.
Evan went quiet. Even Barty didn’t speak.

Regulus swallowed. The sound too loud in the still room.
There was a strange ache in his chest.
Not sharp. Just… dull. Deep.

Like something long buried was shifting inside of him.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the photo.
“Can it really change?” He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud.

Pandora stepped forward, kneeling beside him.

“Change takes time,” she said softly. “But yes. It can.”

He shook his head once — not to deny, just to stay afloat.
The memory hurt. More than he’d expected. More than he’d let himself admit.
“He said he wanted to know me,” Regulus whispered.
“The real me. Now.”

Pandora met his gaze.
“And do you?”

Another pause. Regulus looked back at the photo.
The loop repeated: Sirius throwing his arms up, laughing. Regulus turning to him—smiling.

A moment frozen in something better than truth: hope.

His voice, when it came again, was small but steady.
“I don’t know.” Pandora knelt quietly beside him, resting her arms on her knees. The photo frame sat in Regulus’s hands like it weighed more than stone.

“You know,” she said gently, “we could say yes. Go. Just… see what happens. If it gets awful, we leave. No drama. No explanations. We don’t owe anyone anything.”

Regulus didn’t answer.

He stared at the version of himself in the photo — still young, still untouched in ways he could never be again.

Then he shook his head.

“It’s not about that.”

Pandora tilted her head slightly, waiting.

“He sees me now,” Regulus murmured, voice strained but controlled. “As someone worth knowing. A hero. Someone he can be proud of.”

He looked down again, thumb brushing over the cracked glass.

“But that’s not who I am.”

Pandora stayed silent.

“When we were young, I was the wrong one. The quiet one. The obedient one. The one who didn’t run.” He let out a bitter breath. “And now I’ve killed a monster and suddenly—suddenly I’m something.”

His hands tightened around the frame.

“The moment he starts to see me—really see me—he’ll see what’s left.”
His voice dropped, rougher. “The nightmares. The shaking. The nights I wake up screaming and can’t breathe. The way I flinch when someone raises their voice. The- the marks on my body, bloody hell Pandora-”
He looked up, eyes dark and alive and raw.
“He’ll see I’m not a hero. Just another fucking victim with blood in his teeth.”

The words hung in the space between them like smoke.

Pandora didn’t try to contradict him. She didn’t offer easy comfort.
Instead, she reached out and gently pried the frame from his hands — setting it down between them like something sacred.

“And maybe,” she said softly, “that’s exactly the part he needs to see. Reg- They want you there,” Pandora said, her voice gentle but steady. “Even if you can’t believe that yet.”

Regulus scoffed quietly, eyes fixed on a crack in the wall like he could fall into it and vanish. “Please, Pandora—Sirius was just being… Sirius. He doesn’t think. He invited me to a house he doesn’t even own, filled with people who don’t actually want me there.” His tone had gone flat — that distant, armored indifference he wore when the ground beneath him started to shake. But Pandora didn’t back down. She didn’t flinch.

And before she could say anything else, he pushed on:
“Me and Potter never got along, you know that. He was my arch-nemesis. Loud, overconfident, everyone’s favorite — especially Sirius’s. And—”

“You used to have a crush on that arch-nemesis,” Pandora cut in, her voice deceptively light.

Regulus froze. He turned to her slowly, a faint flush blooming high on his cheeks.
“It’s not my fault he’s—he’s like that,” he muttered, voice tight and quiet, the last two words almost swallowed.
“Anyway,” he went on, “Sirius invited me out of the blue. And I’m not who I used to be. He’ll understand. He has to. I’m not worthy of that kind of invitation anymore.”

Pandora stepped closer, deliberately slow, and brought her hand to his face — not to force eye contact, not to confront, but simply to remind him she was there. Real. Unshaken. Unafraid of him. “You don’t have to be who you used to be, Regulus,” she said, soft but firm. “That’s not what they’re asking. That’s not what this is about.”

He didn’t answer. His eyes flicked again toward the corner of the room, toward the scorched remnants of a life he no longer recognized. He didn’t deny her words. That was something.

“If I go with you,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse, “will you promise not to expect anything from me?”

Pandora tilted her head just a little, searching his face.

“I’ll expect you to show up,” she said simply. “That’s all.”

A pause followed — longer this time. A silence that wasn’t avoidance but consideration. Regulus said, voice rough but certain, “I'll think about it.”

Chapter Text

“I swear I left it right here,” Sirius said, half buried in the back of the wardrobe, his voice muffled by a hanging robe and an old Quidditch jersey.

James leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with mild concern. Remus sat on the edge of the bed, peeling the label off a bottle of calming draught with expert fingers. “You said that thirty minutes ago,” James pointed out. “And five closets ago.”

“It was the black one,” Sirius said, throwing a pair of dragon-hide gloves into the hallway. “No, not that black one—the other black one. The one with the weird lock I accidentally cursed open in seventh year.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “You mean the one you used to hide cursed sweets and your escape kit from family dinners?”

“Yes! That one!”

“…Right,” James muttered. “Definitely where I’d store vacation clothes.”

Sirius groaned and sat back on his heels, hair a mess, sleeves rolled up, a light sweat on his brow. Then he started pacing. Again.
“Okay. So we’ve got you two. Then Lily, Mary, Mary's boyfriend maybe, Dorcas, and Marlene. That’s seven.”

“Eight,” James corrected. “You forgot yourself. Again.”

“Right. Eight.” Sirius’s hands flailed midair like punctuation. “And if Reg comes—plus Barty and Evan and Pandora— that’s twelve.”

There was a pause.

"Wait-" James blinked. “Twelve?”

Sirius nodded, eyes wide.

James ran a hand through his hair. “Mate… I mean, yeah, we’ve got a big place but not that big.”

Sirius froze. “What.”

“You wanted the big guest room for you and Remus, right?” James said, already doing the math in his head. “That leaves three other bedrooms. If we double people up, we might manage ten. But twelve?”

“Oh my God,” Sirius whispered. “He’s going to think I planned a disaster.”

Remus tilted his head, amused. “You did plan a disaster.”

Sirius spun toward James. “We can’t tell him we don’t have space. We invited him. We begged him. We practically bribed him with sunlight and fruity drinks!”

James raised a hand. “Calm down, I doubt he's bribed by that.” Sirius glared at him. "Sorry mate but he seems allergic to the sun- but that's just my opinion."

“We told him he could bring his friends,” Sirius went on, hands in his hair now. “If he shows up and finds out he’s got to share a room with—God forbid—Marlene, he’ll kill me.”

“Honestly,” Remus said, lying back on the bed, “I’d pay to see that.”

Sirius turned to James again. “Do we have a tent? A magical extension kit? A spare beach house?”

“We could rotate people by the hour,” James deadpanned. “Or start a gladiator-style fight for who gets the king bed.”

Sirius paused.

James narrowed his eyes. “That was a joke.”

“Right,” Sirius said, nodding too fast. “Right. Yeah. Obviously.”

Remus covered his face with a pillow and groaned.
“We’re not even there yet and this is already a nightmare.”

James leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Sirius all but hyperventilate in the middle of the room. His pacing had become something between a march and a nervous dance routine. Remus sat on the floor now, back against the bedframe, chewing a bit of loose string from his sleeve.

“Mate,” James finally said, voice dry, “you do realize none of them have actually said they’re coming, right?”

Sirius froze mid-pace, one socked foot half-lifted off the floor. “That’s not helping.”

“It’s true, though,” James said with a casual shrug, swirling the spoon in his tea. “They’ve gone completely off the grid. No letters, no howlers, no Bartemius storming in to tell me my guts are a war crime. Radio silence.”

“Can you not call him that?” Sirius snapped, frowning.

“Call him what?” James asked, innocently.

“Bartemius. You make it sound like you hate him.”

“I do hate him. But with respect,” James added, raising his cup in mock salute. “Deep, profound respect for the brain he brings. 12 Owls are tough stuff.”

Sirius grumbled under his breath while Remus, already halfway through the Daily Prophet, sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“They’re probably just laying low,” he said, trying for logic. “After everything that came out — Skeeter’s article, the Prophet headlines, that bonkers conspiracy theorist who said Regulus was actually a time-traveling—Honestly, I’d go into hiding too.”

“And still someone started a fan club for him,” he added with a snort. “The Blackout Society. Apparently they think he faked his own death twice just to save the world in style.”

Sirius groaned so loud it echoed off the ceiling. “Don’t say that to him. He’ll never speak to me or you again.”

“I mean, he already barely speaks to you,” James muttered. Sirius shot him a look.
James raised his hands. “Sorry. Too soon.”

“He hates attention,” Sirius muttered, beginning to pace again.
“He hates people. He especially hates people who like him. What if he’s so pissed about it he decides to never leave England again?”

“Good news,” Remus offered, “we’re technically going to Spain.”

“That’s not comforting Remus!”

"Alright- alright- let's calm down." James ran a hand through his hair and pushed off the wall. “Look. If they do show up, we’ll make it work.”

Sirius blinked at him. “We’re twelve people in a house meant for six,” he said slowly, like James had forgotten how numbers work.

“So?” James said. “Someone shares. Someone sleeps on the floor. I sleep on the damn couch if it comes to that. I don’t care.”

Sirius looked at him. Really looked. And the panic in his chest seemed to ease just slightly. “Thanks,” he said, voice lower.

James shrugged again. “We survive war. We survive overcrowded beach houses.”
Then, after a beat— “…and that brings us back to the real crisis: where the hell is your suitcase.”

At that exact moment, a soft, thudding sound came from inside the wardrobe.
All three of them turned in unison. Remus stood up, brushing dust off his jeans.
“…That wasn’t the wind, was it?”

Sirius crept toward the wardrobe with the caution of someone approaching a blast-ended skrewt. He grabbed the handle, yanked the door open—
—and the suitcase fell on his head.

James howled with laughter. Remus barely kept upright.
“Found it.” Sirius groaned from the floor, the weight of the suitcase still half on his chest. James was still laughing, doubled over, tears at the corners of his eyes.
Remus, trying to stay composed, stepped forward cautiously.

“You sure that thing isn’t cursed?”

“Of course not,” Sirius said, sitting up and brushing dust out of his hair. “It’s just… old.” He flicked the latch. The suitcase sprang open with a violent pop.

And immediately—

A cloud of feathers exploded out, followed by a small bundle of bright green socks, several suspicious-looking vials of murky potion, and—
—a pair of underwear with tiny golden snitches embroidered on the waistband.

Everything landed in a heap on the carpet. Silence.

Then Remus said, very calmly- “We’re leaving in two days, and your bag just tried to bite me.”

Sirius blinked at the chaos. “It has character.”

Remus turned to James. “We’re buying him another suitcase.”

“Agreed,” James said between snorts.

Sirius, completely unfazed, picked up one of the old vials and held it to the light.
“Huh. Wonder what this does.”

Remus and James shouted in unison- “Don’t open that!”

Sirius grinned. “Fine. But I’m keeping the snitch pants.”

2

The kitchen smelled like coffee, burnt toast, and something vaguely spicy that probably wasn’t meant for breakfast — cumin, maybe, or dragon pepper. The kind of scent that clung to your clothes and made your nose itch. A window had been cracked open in a half-hearted attempt to air it out, but all it really did was let in the distant sound of traffic and the occasional screech of a Kneazle in heat somewhere down the alley.

Regulus sat at the small table by the window, one leg crossed over the other, spine straight as ever despite the soft rumple of his clothes — a borrowed jumper that hung too loose at the shoulders and pyjama pants cuffed twice at the ankles. A mug of black tea sat going cold at his elbow, untouched. Steam no longer rose from it. He didn’t seem to notice.

The Daily Prophet lay open in his hands, ink shimmering faintly where the headlines danced across the front page like a stage show no one had asked for.

“BLACK BROTHERS: HEROES, TRAITORS, OR SOMETHING IN BETWEEN?”

Exclusive interviews! Anonymous Order sources speak out: “They were always strange, those two. One ran away, the other died. Now they’re back. Coincidence? We don’t think so.”

Public Opinion Poll: 43% say ‘Thank you, Regulus!’ — 37% say ‘Dark Lord in Disguise?’ — 17% unsure what day it is — 3% voted for Gilderoy Lockhart by mistake.

Another page showed a magically looped image of Sirius caught mid-laugh outside a Ministry building, flipping two fingers at the press with absolutely no shame and less coordination.
Below it, in bold gold lettering:

“REDEMPTION OR REBRANDING? THE BLACKS ARE BACK (AND MERCH IS SELLING FAST)”
Inside: 12-page photo spread of the ‘rebel brothers’ — page 9 features shirtless Quidditch-themed fanart by readers.

Regulus didn’t react.
He barely blinked anymore.

He turned a page slowly, revealing a more serious column featuring McGonagall standing stiffly with a comment bubble that read:

“We owe him more than just peace. He gave us a future.”
(Then, in smaller text: The Headmistress refused to elaborate and promptly vanished into her office.)

In the background, Barty was humming off-key — something vaguely disco and completely out of key — shirtless and barefoot, flipping something in a pan that might have been pancakes or, knowing Barty, the early stages of a banned potion modified for “digestive enhancement.” The scent coming from it was both appealing and deeply suspicious.

“Almost edible!” he announced triumphantly to no one, flicking his wand with a flourish that sent sparks into the air and set the smoke alarm screaming for mercy. He silenced it with a glare.

Across the room, Evan lounged on the worn sofa, still in pyjama bottoms printed with tiny cauldrons and a half-open robe that exposed way more collarbone than breakfast etiquette might permit. He was drinking coffee straight from the carafe like a feral creature recently brought in from the wild and only half-domesticated.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Evan muttered when he caught Regulus’s eye. “There are no clean mugs. And I like it this way. Very primal.”

Regulus didn’t respond. He wasn’t even looking at him anymore. His eyes were back on the paper, scanning a new headline that had just shimmered into view:

“DUMBLEDORE’S SECRET FILES: WHAT DID HE KNOW, AND WHEN DID HE DECIDE TO BE MYSTERIOUS ABOUT IT?”
“We spoke to an enchanted portrait. It had no comment, but looked disappointed.”

Further down:

“HERO OF THE WEEK: REGULUS BLACK”
An opinion piece written in cursive hearts and pink ink by “a very serious adult journalist” who appears to be thirteen and obsessed.

Regulus let the paper fall flat on the table, fingers resting along its spine like he might tear it in half or fold it away forever. Instead, he sighed. It was the kind of sigh that came from somewhere deeper than lungs. From bone. From memory.

And behind him, the chaos continued — Barty humming, Evan sipping, a potion bubbling threateningly on the stove, and the world spinning far too fast for anyone to catch up.

Evan leaned over Regulus’s shoulder with the slow, deliberate elegance of someone who knew he was about to be annoying and was committed to it.
“Huh,” he said, studying the newspaper. “Apparently, you’re now ‘the face of reluctant redemption.’ That’s poetic. Very brooding. Tragic warlock chic.”

Regulus didn’t glance up. “If you breathe any closer, I’m charging you rent.”

“Oh, come on,” Evan grinned. “You should be flattered. The article called you ‘enigmatic.’ That’s just journalist code for ‘terrifying but weirdly hot.’”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“No you’re not,” Barty chimed in, walking in with a piece of toast hanging from his mouth like a cigarette. “You’re cataloguing it for trauma fuel later.”

Evan nodded, inspecting the teacup Regulus had abandoned. “Also, did you see the part where they described you as having ‘a gaze like winter incarnate’? That’s not even journalism. That’s bookish.”

Regulus closed the paper with a snap. “I should have died in that cave.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Evan said, setting the cup down. “You survived a cave, a war, and your mother. You can survive a little admiration.”

Barty leaned back in his chair, smug. “Admit it. You love being adored.”

“You going to eat?” Evan asked, voice rough from sleep.

“No. I've lost my appetite.” Regulus turned the page without looking up.

“He means yes,” Barty added. “He’s just being dramatic.”

“I am dramatic,” Regulus muttered. “There’s no ‘just’.”

A soft knock at the window interrupted the banter.
It was barely a sound — more a tap, like a thought made real — but all three of them turned instinctively. The joking stopped mid-breath, and something quieter settled in its place.

A brown barn owl sat perched on the ledge, its feathers ruffled slightly by the breeze. Dignified. Still. With a single roll of parchment tied neatly to its leg.

Regulus stood. Slowly.

Tension flickered through his shoulders like static — not enough to draw comment, but enough for Barty and Evan to exchange a glance. He crossed the room with the precision of someone expecting bad news and not wanting to show it. His fingers paused briefly at the latch before he unhooked it, and the window gave a soft creak as it opened.

The owl didn’t flinch. It tilted its head once, meeting his gaze with something like expectation, then stepped calmly inside. With a deliberate motion, it extended the leg with the message and waited.

Regulus untied the parchment with care. No rush. No comment. The moment his fingers closed around the letter, the owl gave a low, throaty hoot — not impolite, but not warm either — and launched off the sill with a push of its wings, disappearing into the pale morning sky.

Silence stretched.

Barty leaned forward on the couch, trying to peer over Regulus’s shoulder. “Who’s it from?”

Regulus didn’t answer.

He stared down at the parchment in his hand. The handwriting was simple. Neat. Measured. No flair, no dramatics.

He broke the seal. Unfolded the parchment. Regulus’s fingers paused for just a moment as he unfolded the letter. But the magic pulsing beneath the surface—he could feel it now. Like the hum of a snake before it strikes.
No scent. No wax. No name.
And read.

His eyes scanned the first few lines.

The parchment crackled faintly in Regulus’s hand.

He’d barely read the first line — To the little prince who thought betrayal came without consequence — when the ink began to run. Not like a spill. Like veins bursting under skin.

“Reg?” Barty’s voice was casual, but the edge in it was sharp. “You alright?”

The ink didn’t stop. It moved with purpose, bleeding from the letters, pooling into lines that crawled across the surface like living tendrils. The parchment twitched. Twitched again.

Then it bit him.

Regulus hissed, recoiling — too late. The paper folded in on itself like a predator snapping shut, edges sharp as razors, and one caught him across the palm. Thin, clean slice — but deep. Blood welled immediately.

“Shit,” he muttered, and staggered back.

Pandora was already at his side, reaching for his hand, but the moment her fingers brushed his skin, she froze.

“Reg,” she whispered. “You’re burning up. Shit- shit- shit-”

Barty stood so fast his chair scraped back. “What the fuck—?”

Regulus opened his mouth to speak, but his breath caught.
The cut glowed. Literally glowed. Not gold, not silver — something wrong, something green that shimmered under his skin like oil on water. A sickly light that pulsed once, twice — and then bloomed outward in veins.

He stumbled. Caught the edge of the table. Missed.

Evan was there in a heartbeat, catching him under the arms before he hit the floor.
“Reg, hey, hey! Stay with us—what the hell was that?!”

His vision blurred. Heat crashed through his veins, too fast, too hot — like swallowing fire backward, like being filled with something that didn’t belong. His knees gave out. The parchment hit the ground and disintegrated into smoke.

“It’s a curse,” Pandora said, voice tight and cold, already pulling her wand. “Blood-activated. Someone bound it to him.”

“I thought that shit was illegal,” Barty muttered, yanking open the cupboard for potions. “Proper dark magic. Who the hell sends a letter like that?!”

“Someone who doesn’t care if he dies,” Evan snapped. "Actually someone who wants him dead."

Regulus coughed, then gasped — sharp, involuntary. His fingers clawed at his chest like he could pull it out, whatever it was. His eyes were wild, unfocused. Sweat beaded at his hairline.

Evan pressed a cold cloth to his forehead. “Regulus, you hear me? Stay with us. Stay with me. Oh god- what we're gonna do.”

The green glow pulsed beneath Regulus’s skin like a dark tide, rising fast — too fast — threatening to swallow him whole. His breath hitched, a strangled gasp slipping through his teeth as his knees buckled. He almost collapsed again.

But this time, his hands curled into fists, knuckles white, nails digging deep into his palms until the sting anchored him.

“No,” he rasped, voice low and raw. “Fucking hell, no. I’m not dying — not like this. Not now.”

Pandora’s head snapped toward him, surprise flickering across her face. Evan’s grip around Regulus’s arms tightened instinctively to steady him, but Regulus shook his head and pushed gently away, legs trembling beneath him.

“I’m not dying because of a cursed fucking letter,” he snarled, the words sharp, each syllable costing him breath.

He forced himself upright, swaying slightly, jaw clenched against the fire spreading through his veins. Every nerve screamed. The curse was in him now, a slow, insidious poison crawling under his skin like wildfire. It was unbearable — and yet, somewhere beneath the agony, something clicked. Some deep, buried part of him — trained, disciplined — rose to meet the pain.

His mind began working, dragging itself through the fog, sifting frantically through old lessons, counter-curses, potions theory, anything he’d ever read or memorised.

Focus, he told himself. Focus or die.
And somehow, concentrating on that — on facts and logic and control — lessened the terror. Not the pain, never the pain; it was tearing him apart. But the fear receded just enough to let him stand.

God, how it hurt. It was unbearable. But still — Regulus refused to fall. Not after everything.

“Evan, Barty,” he said, voice still shaky but commanding. “Find me aconite and dittany. And grab the salamander blood from the back room.” Barty nodded, moving quickly, while Evan stayed by his side. Pandora kept her wand raised, fingers twitching, ready to cast. But Regulus held up a hand.

“No. I can try first. If I’m going to—” he swallowed hard, “—survive this, I have to fight it myself. Not just be a patient.”

Pandora hesitated. “Are you sure? It perfectly normal to get some help.”

He gave her a hard look. “I don’t want to be saved because someone thinks I’m too weak to save myself.” They watched as he sank slowly to one knee, closing his eyes. His breathing slowed, becoming deliberate, controlled. As always.
He was the one in charge.

He muttered under his breath, a soft incantation — almost a whisper — weaving together a ward he’d studied but never had to use like this. The heat flared hotter beneath his skin, then, like a wave cresting, it started to recede.

With shaking fingers, he tore a strip of his sleeve, binding it tightly around the cut on his palm. The green light flickered and dimmed.

Evan returned with the potions and ingredients, setting them gently on the floor. Regulus took the aconite, then the ditany, carefully measuring, then mixing with a few drops of salamander blood.

He drank.

The burning in his veins didn’t vanish, but it dulled — from a raging inferno to a manageable flame.But Regulus’s wand was in his hand before the thing could finish.
He flicked his wrist once — sharp, elegant — and the parchment burst into flame, turning to ash in a second. The smoky mouth let out a shriek that fizzled into silence.

“Wonderful—” Regulus gritted out, one hand braced on the counter, the other gripping the edge of the table like it might float away. His pulse was no longer screaming in his ears. His heart was stabilizing. His breath was returning. And, slowly, the world began to settle into focus again.

Ash still floated lazily through the air like black snow, soft and silent. It dusted the kitchen tiles. It landed in the butter dish. Regulus lifted his head, hair sticking slightly to his forehead, and looked at them both with faint incredulity.

“Breakfast entertainment?” Evan finally offered, in a voice so dry it could have scratched glass.

Barty blinked. “I mean—could’ve just said you weren’t hungry, Reg.”

Regulus stared.

“You didn’t have to die about it,” Pandora added, bending to pick up the spatula with exaggerated caution, like it might now be cursed by association.

“I didn’t die,” Regulus muttered, straightening fully, though he had to grab the counter again to keep from wobbling. But a little smirk was forming at the end of his mouth. Only those idiots could joke about his imminent death.

“Yeah, no, we noticed,” Evan said, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t almost watched their friend be hexed into oblivion. “You just dramatically collapsed in a cloud of glowing green doom, wrangled ancient dark magic with your bare hands, bled on the good linens, and resurrected yourself. Casual Thursday.”

“You should hydrate,” Barty added helpfully, reaching into the fridge for a juice box like nothing had happened.

Regulus stared at the juice box. Then at Barty. “…Is that my healing reward?”

“It’s strawberry,” Barty said. “Be grateful I didn’t get the pumpkin flavor.”
Regulus stood still, jaw clenched, eyes locked on where the ash had landed.
"Do you know who sent that?"

“Someone who thinks I should’ve died with the rest of them.”

“Someone with bad timing,” Barty muttered.

Regulus didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a moment. Then— “It was bound to happen.”

"So-" Evan finally set his coffee down with a soft clink, like the world had tilted back into something close to normal. “Still want to stay here and get threats, or are you ready to leave this dump?”

Barty, perched half-sideways on the kitchen counter, twirled the spatula in one hand like a wand. “Yeah—look, I don’t support the Gryffindor lot, I actually hate them- but honestly? I’d rather be trapped in a sun-soaked cottage in bloody Spain than spend another hour reading the fucking prophet or fighting off former death eaters."

Regulus didn’t answer. He simply dusted ash from the sleeve of his coat with slow, precise fingers — graceful, composed, almost bored. His movements were steady again. Deliberate. It was the kind of calm that followed fire, that lived just after survival.

Evan watched him carefully. Not with worry — not exactly — but with the weight of someone who had seen Regulus break and rebuild himself one too many times.
“You know,” he said, voice casual, “we could go somewhere else. Not Potter’s. Not Spain, even. Anywhere you want. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere with no letters and no legacy.”

Still, no reply. Only the quiet brush of ash falling away like snow. But Regulus’s jaw had unclenched. His breathing was even. Because they were right. In the next month PAndora's house was going to be a fucking mess of letters and shit.

Barty leaned sideways into Evan and muttered, “He’s brooding. It’s a process.”

“I heard that,” Regulus said flatly.

“Then take a vote,” Barty said, spinning the spatula like a wand. “Stay hidden here, breathing in asbestos and brooding like a tragic prince—”

“Or,” Evan cut in, raising his mug, “go somewhere warm. Possibly alcohol-soaked. Possibly chaotic. Definitely not haunted.”

Regulus didn’t smile. But he did meet their eyes, gaze sharp and steady. Something behind it had shifted — not softer, but grounded. “I’m not hiding,” he said.

“Didn’t say you were,” Evan replied.

“But you totally are, honey,” Pandora chimed in sweetly from the doorway, hands tucked into her cardigan sleeves like she hadn’t just set a verbal trap. “And badly, I might add.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but his jaw twitched like he was fighting the urge to smirk.
“I’m not hiding,” he repeated, firmer now. “From who? Sirius?” A short scoff escaped him. “I could crush him.”

“Oh absolutely,” Barty grinned. “Right under the weight of all that unresolved trauma.”

Regulus shot him a look.

Barty just kept going. “Is that why you haven’t left this crumbling ruin in weeks? Scared you’ll run into him and he’ll… what? Hug you? Invite you at his house? Again?”

“You know what?” Regulus snapped, throwing his hands up. “Fine. Let’s go. Let’s go and prove that this is, in fact, an awful idea. Happy now?”

Evan raised a brow. “You’re going just to prove it’ll be a disaster?”

“Exactly. We — a gang of Slytherins — trapped in a house with a herd of Gryffindors? I give it 24 hours before someone starts hexing the furniture.”

“You’re so untrusting,” Barty said, smirking. “I’d say one week.”

“I bet we’ll stay the whole month,” Pandora sing-songed. She spun toward the hallway. “So? Can I start packing?”

Regulus blinked. She was already gone. And for one dizzy second, he realized exactly what had just happened. She’d orchestrated the whole thing. Nudged. Steered. Won.
He’d been played. Regulus groaned under his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I absolutely hate her.”

“No, you don’t,” Evan said, already moving to grab his coat.

“She weaponized charm,” Barty added with admiration. “I respect it.”

Regulus took a breath. Squared his shoulders. Brushed a smear of ash off his shirt like it meant nothing. He wasn’t hiding.
He was Regulus Black.
And he could survive a month surrounded by Gryffindors. Probably.

He turned on his heel and left the room without another word.
He had a letter to send.

3

James was elbow-deep in a crate of old magical gadgets, tossing things onto the counter with increasingly less care.

A self-stirring cauldron lid whirred angrily and spun off the edge with a metallic clang.
“Who even buys this stuff?” he muttered, holding up a singing teaspoon that immediately began warbling something heartbreakingly off-key.

“Collectors,” Remus said from across the room, not looking up from the invoice book. “And madmen. Sometimes both.”

“What are you doing?” Euphemia asked as she stepped in, drying her hands on a dish towel and eyeing the growing chaos like it was a species of wild animal she’d hoped had gone extinct.

“Looking for the sun-charm,” James said, triumphantly holding up something that looked suspiciously like a pocket watch with tiny legs. It kicked him. “You know, the one that creates that golden hour glow all day long? Great for photos. Or mood. Or—mild sunburn, if you overdo it.”

She arched an eyebrow. “So you’re trying to manipulate the literal sun before leaving for Spain?”

James shrugged, unfazed. “I’m just giving nature a gentle nudge. Like—cosmic lighting direction.”

“Of course you are,” she muttered, glancing toward Remus for backup. He was already pretending not to be involved.

“It’s called atmosphere, Mum.” She rolled her eyes and leaned on the counter, watching him with that amused half-smile that meant he was seconds away from doing something stupid.

“Just don’t summon a miniature star inside the house again,” she said. “I’m still scrubbing that scorch mark out of the upstairs curtains.”

James finally found the charm—a small brass sphere with a sun engraved on it—and grinned triumphantly. “Aha! Told you I had it.”
He flicked his wand toward it and muttered the activation incantation under his breath.

The charm trembled. Hummed.
Then exploded in a sudden blast of tropical humidity.
Within seconds, the entire kitchen turned swampy.
The windows fogged over. A palm tree sprouted from the corner. The breadbasket melted. Monty’s paper fluttered off the table and into the ceiling fan, which began spinning wildly.

Euphemia froze.

James blinked.
“Okay… not quite golden hour.”

Remus finally looked up. “You are insufferable. And an idiot.”

Euphemia appeared in the doorway just in time to survey the chaos: one deflated palm tree slumped in the corner, something that looked suspiciously like magical sunscreen dripping from the ceiling, and the distinct scent of burning… pineapple?

She crossed her arms. “Do you want me to handle it, or are you going to be a grown-up and fix your mess?”

James, sheepish, gave a quick flick of his wand. The humidity disappeared with a sharp pop. The conjured palm tree evaporated into mist. The ceiling fan gave one last heroic spin before dying with a groan. The breadbasket, however, remained a charred ruin — and possibly sentient.

“Better,” Euphemia said dryly, stepping carefully over a still-steaming banana peel.

James leaned on the counter and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, sweat and soot smearing alike. “Do you think it’s insane?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Twelve people in one house. Sirius trying to impress his brother. Regulus trying not to explode. Me trying not to strangle Barty.”

Euphemia considered this, her expression unreadable for a second — then gave a small shrug and smiled. “You’ve survived Voldemort.”

James stared, then laughed—sharp and honest, like it had been pulled out of him against his will. “Fair,” he said, shaking his head. Some of the tension in his shoulders gave in at last, like a sigh released. “Though I think Regulus and Barty might actually be worse.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Remus said without hesitation, flipping a page in his book as if this were settled, scientific fact. “But at least you can hex him without causing a diplomatic incident.”

James blinked, hopeful. “Wait, can I?”

Remus didn’t even look up. “I won’t tell if you don’t. Especially not to Sirius. If he hears me now, he’ll hex my balls off. But we have an agreement, James.”

“An agreement?”

“Mutually assured destruction,” Remus replied with perfect calm, sipping his tea.

Euphemia rolled her eyes fondly as she walked past and planted a kiss on James’s cheek. “Besides,” she said, pulling on oven mitts like armor, “if it all goes horribly wrong, I’ll come rescue you.”

James raised his mug in salute. “Promise?”

“Only if you beg.”

“I’ll have a draft prepared by Tuesday.”
The smell of burnt bread was just beginning to fade when the front door slammed open downstairs.

“JAMES!”

Euphemia winced, lifting her eyes to the ceiling.
“That’ll be Sirius.” James barely had time to turn around before Sirius came skidding into the kitchen, nearly tripping over the damp towel on the floor. His hair was a mess, his boots untied, and he was holding a piece of parchment above his head like it was the Sword of Gryffindor.

“JAMES! HE WROTE BACK!”

James flinched mid-sip of tea. “Merlin, Pads—some of us enjoy having eardrums.”

Sirius ignored him entirely, waving a parchment wildly like it might fly away if not restrained. “HE’S COMING!”

Euphemia turned from the stove, both eyebrows raised. “Who?”

“Reg!” Sirius shouted, already halfway into the room. “He wrote back! I have proof!”
He slammed the parchment down on the table like a royal decree.

James blinked, picked it up, and read:

“Since you seem tragically incapable
of taking ‘no’ for an answer—
Fine.
– RAB.”

James stared at it. “Wow.”

Euphemia leaned over his shoulder. “Was that… a yes?”

“That’s a yes,” Sirius said, practically vibrating. “That’s Regulus screaming yes in full emotional volume.”

“He called you tragic,” James noted.

“Affectionately!”

Euphemia shook her head, smiling as she wiped her hands on the dish towel. Sirius clutched the parchment to his chest like it was a relic from the gods, eyes too bright, hope spilling out of him like a cracked dam.

“I don’t care if he hexes my eyebrows off the first day,” Sirius declared. “He’s coming.”

And James didn’t have the heart to ruin it.

Not with the memory of Sirius pacing the living room like a caged dog for weeks. Not with the way he’d gone quiet every time someone mentioned the word brother. Even if James didn’t get along with Regulus. Even if he and Bartemius Bloody Crouch Jr. had barely exchanged more than mutual disdain and snide commentary. Even if James had this deep, gnawing feeling that everything was going to collapse in the first twenty-four hours — in a blaze of sarcasm, side-eyes, and emotionally repressed trauma.

Even if they didn’t really know these people. Not as they were now. Not after everything.

But fine. Let’s stay positive, James.
Let’s pretend this isn’t a recipe for high-drama disaster wrapped in sarcasm and shipped to a villa in Spain.

Everything will be fine—

Chapter Text

The Passaporta landed them just outside the villa with a soft crack.
Regulus barely flinched. He took a single, precise step forward, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. The black linen of his shirt caught the sunlight like shadow made elegant — crisp, clean, unforgiving. He adjusted his collar with the same calm one might use when straightening a blade.

Next to him, Evan arrived like a man stepping off a train he’d personally commissioned: upright, impeccable, and already bored, searching for some adrenaline. Barty came in sideways, misjudging the ground with a merde! under his breath and nearly toppling into Evan, who didn’t move an inch to help him.
Pandora’s heels clicked against the gravel a second later, her scarf catching the wind like she’d planned it.

Regulus looked at the front door with narrowed eyes. “We’re early.”

“We’re not,” Evan said, squinting at the sun. “I could already feel a dozen of people inside.”

“Okay, wow.” She exhaled with a grin.

The villa loomed ahead — three stories of white stone and lazy wealth, wrapped in ivy and sun. Curved balconies wrapped around the upper floors, their wrought iron railings lined with towels and swimsuits. Long windows stood wide open, letting out the scent of citrus and sea salt and something definitely burning. From inside came a swell of shouting, a bass-heavy beat, and a pop! that may or may not have been a firework.

“Did we land in a party or a hostage situation?” Evan asked, squinting at a window as someone inside threw a beach ball with tactical violence.

Barty was already fanning himself with a conjured fan. “I think I’m allergic to this much cheer.”

Regulus stared straight ahead, unmoving. His eyes narrowed just slightly, like he was calculating wind resistance. “Remind me again,” he said, dry as the gravel under his shoes, “Why I agreed to this.”

Pandora linked her arm with his, ignoring the prickly silence like a pro.
“Because deep down, you love us. And because you lost the vote.”

“I didn’t vote. We didn't vote. Why we didn't vote?”

“Err-well,” Evan said. “Bad news. This means that we did. And that Democracy’s a bitch.” Regulus rolled his eyes, calling them sluts in his mind.

From inside the villa came the unmistakable sound of Sirius yelling “DON’T TOUCH THAT!” followed immediately by something shattering.

Regulus closed his eyes. “Fantastic. We’re not even through the door.”

Pandora grinned. “Welcome to paradise. Feels like we’re about to be eaten alive” she added, squinting up at the balconies like they might blink.

The front door burst open before anyone could knock.

Sirius exploded out onto the steps like a human firework — barefoot, sunburned, and unmistakably over-caffeinated. His shirt was only buttoned on one side, clinging to his shoulder like it was trying to escape. His hair was caught in some impossible midstate between windswept and electrocuted.

“You’re here!” he yelled, arms flung wide like he was about to stage-dive.
“You’re actually here — this isn’t a hallucination or a grief-fever dream or some elaborate prank by Remus—” He galloped down the last few steps and launched forward with the energy of a golden retriever who had both abandonment issues and a sugar addiction.

Regulus took a precise step back, lifting one brow like he was being approached by an aggressive mime. “You’re radiating sweat. Kindly refrain from touching me.”

Sirius froze mid-bound, blinking like a kicked puppy. “Still warm and fuzzy as ever, I see.”

Evan leaned in to whisper to Pandora. “Is this the part where we sedate them both or just start drinking?”

Barty pulled out a tiny camera and snapped a photo. “This is absolutely going in the memoir.”

Pandora laughed, looping her arm through Regulus’s again. “Come on. He’s ridiculous, but he’s yours.”

“He’s not mine, stop.” Regulus muttered.

Sirius beamed. “You’re mine, though!”

“I’m leaving,” Regulus announced immediately.

“No, you’re not,” Pandora and Evan said in perfect sync, both steering him forward like seasoned handlers of difficult creatures.

James appeared behind him, towel slung around his neck, hair damp, shirt clinging to his chest like an overly attached ex.
“Oh, brilliant. The Little Black Beach Club has arrived.”

Regulus didn’t flinch. “And you’re still clinging to Gryffindor swagger like it’s a viable personality.”

James arched a brow. “Better than hiding behind moral superiority and a wardrobe curated by a vampire with a noir fetish.”

Regulus gave a slow, deliberate look down at his outfit. “It’s Italian linen. And it’s called taste. I wouldn’t expect you to recognize it, Potter.”

“Tragic,” James said, deadpan. “All that tailoring and still no soul.”
Regulus inhaled slowly through his nose, the kind of breath one takes before deciding not to commit murder in broad daylight. His jaw tensed—just slightly, just enough—and his fingers curled once at his side before relaxing with deliberate control.

There was something infuriatingly precise about the way James smirked, like he knew the exact point to push, and did it anyway, just to see the edge tremble.
Regulus didn’t yell. But it took effort—measured, clinical effort—to keep his voice level, to keep his eyes from narrowing past a glare.

James Potter had a unique and thoroughly irritating talent: he could slide under Regulus’s skin like sand in silk sheets—coarse, unexpected, and impossible to ignore.

Pandora stepped between them, grabbing Evan’s arm.
“Okay, great. Penis-measuring contest can continue later. Where’s the wine?”

“Kitchen,” Sirius said, turning to guide them inside.
“Remus tried to alphabetize the pantry and Lily and Mary chased him out the room.”

"Er-uh-" Barty smirked. “Charming?”

Regulus followed, slowly. He reached the threshold of the villa — one foot past the archway, hand lifting to brace against the doorframe—

—and the air snapped.

A crackling pressure surged through the space, sharp as static. For one suspended heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Then the wards detonated.

A burst of brilliant blue light shot outward like a ripple through glass — slamming into Regulus and Evan with an audible crack. Both reeled back, boots skidding over the gravel. Dust kicked up around them in a violent puff.

Evan hit the stone railing hard, swearing in what might’ve been Romanian.
Regulus braced with sheer muscle and stubbornness, feet digging in. The force scalded across his skin — and worse, down to the faded burn scar on his forearm, where the Dark Mark used to whisper. He grit his teeth, shoulders locked, magic clashing with his own like flint on steel.

Inside the house, James’s voice rang out like a gunshot.

“SHIT! Shitshitshit—I forgot the wards!”

A window banged open on the second floor, and Remus’s head popped out, hair mussed and holding what looked like a tea towel.
“James Potter, what did I tell you about resetting the protections?!”

Sirius had frozen on the stairs, caught between joy and horror.
“Oh my god, I just murdered my brother. In like the first five minutes he has arrived here! What do I do?”

“Not dead, idiot-” Regulus snapped, voice taut, “but I will be if someone doesn’t turn it off.”

Evan raised a hand from the gravel. “I second that. Also, your wards have very poor manners.”

Barty, unfazed, pulled a peach from his bag and took a bite. “I vote we keep them on. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened all morning.”

“TURN. IT. OFF,” Pandora barked from behind them, heels crunching over the path.
A beat — and then the light snapped out as quickly as it had come, leaving the space eerily quiet. Regulus let out a breath through his nose, slow and sharp.

James appeared at the door, looking pale and panicked, wand already raised in surrender. “I swear, I didn’t mean—”

“Try thinking, next time,” Regulus said, brushing the ash from his shirt with pure contempt.

Sirius was already running down the stairs again. “Oh, thank Merlin. You’re alive. You’re fine. You’re—oh wow, your hair is singed.”

Regulus didn’t blink. “Touch me and I will set the wards back on myself. For fun.”
He shoved past Sirius and nearly tripped over Pandora’s suitcase.
His wand was already out, muttering counter-charms under his breath like a man defusing a bomb.

“Merlin- I—I meant to reset them last week. They’re still set to block Death Eater residue. For security. Obviously. Not not—you.” Regulus didn’t answer. He stood perfectly still, expression flat, though his jaw was tight enough to crack marble. "Obviously not you! Oh god- I'm panicking!""

“So.” His voice was cool, razor-clean.

James winced. “It’s not personal- I swear.”

“No,” Regulus said. “It’s architectural prejudice. Very common in magical estates.”

Behind him, Barty cleared his throat and stage-whispered:
“Ten points to Slytherin for restraint. I would’ve blown up the shrubbery.”

Evan, brushing gravel from his sleeve, muttered- “Please do. It’s hideous.”

James looked at Regulus, guilt still stamped across his face. “I really am sorry. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t, you already said that-” Regulus said, stepping fully into the villa now.
He adjusted his collar. “And don’t worry. I’m used to being treated like a threat in places I’m invited to.”

There was a silence. Just for a breath. Then James exhaled through his nose, shoved a hand through his hair, and started walking toward the main hall.
“You want a drink or another apology?”

Regulus followed, steps measured, his fingers brushing the wall like he was already regretting being indoors. “If you’re doing this for Sirius—just don’t. I’m not here for the family reunion arc, Potter. I won’t ruin your golden retriever energy.”

James shot him a look over his shoulder. “Golden retriever?”

“Don’t act shocked. You wag your tail every time someone gives you a compliment.”
Regulus didn’t smile, but his voice had the faintest edge of amusement. Then it vanished. “You don’t like me. That’s fine. People don’t. I’m not—what’s the word? Likeable. And I've accepted it a long time ago, Potter. So don't be the chevalier here, I'll not judge you.”

James slowed slightly. “That’s not true. At least not completely-”

Regulus arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m delightful, then?”

“No, alright” James admitted. “You’re prickly, arrogant, constantly exhausted-looking, and you treat sincerity like it’s a disease.” He paused. “But I also think you’re smart, and you never pretend to be something you’re not. That counts. And you just finished a war, so I can be a little biased by that-”

Regulus blinked. Something flickered behind his eyes — not softened, not thawed, but considering. “Flattery,” he said, dry as bone. “But now I really want that drink.”

The villa opened up into a wide, sun-drenched sitting room with whitewashed walls and tall windows that let the light spill across polished stone floors.
Two large sofas — worn but clearly expensive — faced each other around a low wooden table covered in beach hats, a bottle of sunscreen, and a half-built deck of exploding snap cards.

Regulus paused at the threshold, hands deep in his pockets like they might keep him from fleeing. James stood a few steps inside, glancing back over his shoulder.

“It was my mum’s place,” he said. “She inherited it from someone rich, a cousin I think- and he was absolutely tasteless. Then she tried to make it… less offensive to the human eye.” He motioned around vaguely. “Believe it or not, this is the toned-down version.”

Regulus stepped further in, slow and deliberate. The air inside was cool, tinged with sea salt, old magic, and lemon polish. He trailed his fingers along the back of one of the sun-faded couches — a soft, unconscious gesture.
“No—er—it’s…” He swallowed, already regretting every syllable. “Cosy. Like a…”
Words abandoned him like fleeing house-elves.

James raised a brow, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. He didn’t rescue him.
But he did soften. “It’s lived-in.”

Regulus gave a small nod. “Very… Spanish, yeah- Spanish.” he added, trying again, though it sounded more like a question than a compliment. He was used to silence and symmetry. Every room at Grimmauld had been perfectly composed and utterly unbearable.

James tilted his head. “And you say that like it’s a crime.”

“No!” Regulus said quickly, then cleared his throat. “No, just—er- new.”

James watched him for a beat longer, eyes flicking to the way Regulus’s hands tightened slightly in his pockets. “You’ll fit right in, then,” he said, voice casual.

Regulus turned toward him, mouth twitching like he might smile — or bite.
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” he murmured. But he didn’t sound like he hated the idea.

Before he could answer, Sirius caught up with them, nearly jogging into the room.
“Hey— sorry, Mary needed me. So- er-” he started, breath a little quick. “Reg, about the wards, I didn’t— I should’ve said something. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t,” Regulus cut in, calm but firm. “But it’s not the first house that’s tried to throw me out. Won’t be the last. James already apologized.” Then- because he wanted to try to be civil at least to Sirius he added- "Don't worry, Sirius."

Sirius opened his mouth to speak again, but James cut in.

“Kitchen’s on the right,” he said, short and practical. “Four bedrooms upstairs, two bathrooms. One here, one up.” He pointed to the staircase at the far end of the hall.
“Balcony’s through that arch. Garden’s out back. It’s wild, but kind of pretty.”

Regulus nodded once. He walked toward the stairs with deliberate steps, paused at the bottom, and looked up. “Four bedrooms.”

“Yes,” James said, standing a few steps behind him. “That’s what I said.” Both the man were eying him with a skeptical gaze, and Regulus mind clicked.

"Four bedrooms-" Regulus turned slowly, voice flat. “And we’re like what- eleven- twelve?” A pause. “Math wasn’t your strongest subject, was it?”

Sirius scratched the back of his neck. “Technically, it’s twelve if everyone comes. And we figured some could double up, or… share. Or we could conjure something.”

“So,” Regulus said, letting the words settle with a clean, soft finality,
“this house was designed for four people. And now you want it to hold twelve, good"

“More or less,” James said. “But there are other guests, so, you know. Perks.”

Regulus didn’t bother to respond. He cast a sidelong glance up the stairs, then he exhaled softly and turned back, hands sliding into his pockets, eyes sharper than necessary—like a blade barely restrained.

Sirius stood at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the railing, desperately trying to appear casual. He failed spectacularly.

“I’ll take the couch,” Regulus declared, stopping beside the nearest sofa as though appraising a barely tolerable piece of furniture.

It was better this way. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation for taking the couch—because yes, he wanted the couch.

Physically wanted it.

The living room was the nerve center of the house, where he could monitor every entrance and exit without surrendering control. The bedrooms, tucked away like unreachable fortresses, were too far from the door, too removed from what mattered. Regulus hated that. He liked control—absolute, ironclad control.

The war had left its marks. The scars that no healing spell could touch. Even knowing Voldemort was dead didn’t ease the tension wound tight in his chest. He was always on edge, always scanning, always anticipating the next threat lurking just out of sight. Because letting down his guard meant risking everything. And he couldn’t risk anyone—not Barty, not Evan, not Pandora, and especially not his brother.
He had to be the shield they couldn’t see.

Sirius blinked, confusion flickering across his face. “The—what?”

“The couch. Here. Downstairs.” He gestured vaguely toward the room, like he was discussing seating at a funeral. “It’s not tragic. I’ve slept in worse.” And he didn't want to remember that part of his life, when he used to hide his body in the bloody closet to feel himself more alive, to feel his limbs attached to his body, to hear his own breathing and heartbeat, to know that somehow he was still alive. He was still here, in the living world. At least physically.

“You’re not sleeping on the bloody sofa, Regulus.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t invite you here to make you curl up like a house elf. You have a room. Assigned. Proper pillows and everything.”

Regulus shrugged. “Give it to Pandora. Or Barty and Evan. They’re decorative and dramatic and probably brought too many clothes. I’m fine here.”

Sirius’s mouth opened, then closed again. “Reg…”

But Regulus wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was eyeing the two couches again. Same model, different cushions. Same tired upholstery, faint scent of salt and dust and old wood. “Besides,” he added, tone light and sharp, “they match. Perfect symmetry. I like that.”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, clearly biting back something. “It’s not a punishment.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

“You deserve a bed.”

Regulus’s eyes flicked to him. “You say that like it’s news.”
The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. Just tired. Regulus reached for the throw blanket folded on the backrest, gave it a testing shake.
Then glanced sideways. “Who’s on the other couch?”

James’s voice came from the archway before anyone else could answer. “Me.”
Regulus turned, eyebrows raised slightly. James leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, damp curls pushed back from his forehead. There was a pause.
Then Regulus said, smoothly: “Of course.”

James tilted his head. “Problem?”

“Only aesthetic,” Regulus ran his fingers across the worn armrest of the couch, almost absentmindedly, then spoke. “Anyway I’ll stay here.”

Sirius, still hovering too close, blinked. “No. No way. You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“I already said I’m fine.”

“You have a room, Reg. A real one. With a bed. A door. I took care of that.”

“And I’m not taking it.” Sirius took a step forward, arms half-raised like he was about to grab something — or someone — and stopped himself.

“You can’t seriously—”

Regulus cut him off. “You’re not letting me sleep on the couch. But James can? The actual owner of the house?” He turned slightly toward James, one brow lifted.
“Doesn’t that seem… wildly inconsistent?”

James, still leaning in the doorway, shrugged. “It’s a choice. Mine.”

Regulus’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Then consider this mine.” The pause that followed was sharp. "Stop. I want this fucking fantastic couch."

James pushed off the frame, stepped fully into the room. “Fine.”

“Fine.” Regulus matched the tone, cool and clipped.

Sirius looked between them like a man watching a chess match with far too many hidden rules. “That’s it? You’re both just… okay with this? Passive-aggressive couch-sharing for the next month?”

“Not passive,” Regulus said.

“Not aggressive,” James added. They didn’t smile.

Sirius gave up with a sigh and flopped backwards into the opposite armchair. “Bloody idiots, the both of you.”

“Runs in the family,” Regulus said, already unfolding the blanket.

2

People were still coming and going. From somewhere upstairs came the sound of a trunk thudding against a doorframe, followed by Barty shouting something unintelligible. Outside, laughter and footsteps faded toward the beach. The air smelled like salt and lemons and fresh linen.

Regulus stood by the window, arms loosely crossed, posture calm in a way that felt almost artificial—like his body was mimicking ease out of habit, not comfort. Below, on the first floor of the house, he watched as Pandora and Evan moved about, gathering towels, glasses, half-zipped bags. Their laughter drifted upward, easy and unbothered. It felt distant, like something from another life.

“So—we’re splitting up,” Sirius said behind him, too suddenly.

Regulus flinched. Not visibly, not in a way anyone else might notice, but his hand twitched toward his wand with instinctive speed, fingers brushing the hilt before he caught himself. He wasn’t used to this yet—to Sirius appearing behind him without warning, to Sirius trying, so insistently, to talk to him. To include him. To look at him like he was fragile and feral all at once.

He wasn’t used to being looked at like a legend, either.

Because that’s what it was now. Everyone in that villa looked at him the same way. Like he was some impossible thing, something not meant to exist—twenty years old and the one who had brought down the most powerful Dark wizard of their time. They all wanted to know. How he had done it. What spells he had used. What dark secrets he had uncovered. But Regulus wasn’t going to tell them.

The memories were still too close, still embedded under his skin like thorns. There were nights where he woke up choking on ash and blood and silence. He didn’t turn to look at Sirius. His voice, when it came, was dry and even. Measured.

“Someone’s heading to the market. Others are finishing their packing. And a few are going down to the beach.”

He kept his gaze fixed on the window, watching as Evan lifted a sunhat he absolutely didn’t own and pretended to model it for Pandora, who laughed so hard she nearly dropped her bag. Regulus’s expression didn’t change.

“It’s just logistics,” he added, tone clipped, as if that could explain away the pressure building in his chest.

“So are we going into town?” Regulus asked, eyes still on the window, voice casual—carefully casual.

Sirius looked up from where he was lounging on the couch, wrestling with a towel that refused to stay in place. He was attempting to tie it around his waist in some complicated knot that seemed purely decorative and entirely unnecessary.

“Yeah,” Sirius said, blinking. “Groceries, more wine, whatever they forgot the first time. Why?”

Regulus turned his head slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder. “I’ll go with them.” Anything to avoid the beach. Anything to avoid the water. At least for a little while. He already knew it was a terrible idea. Come here. He knew how it would go—how they’d all watch him, how questions would come wrapped in concern or disguised as jokes, how he’d be expected to laugh or explain or reassure.
And he had no desire to do any of that.

The ocean was too close. Too loud.

It roared in his ears like a living thing, crashing and pulling with a rhythm that didn’t soothe but unsettled. Each wave sounded like the memory of something breaking — like breath hitching, like a body giving in.

It reminded him too much of that place. The last place he had seen his own death.
Or almost-death. But what was the difference, really? When your soul had been halfway gone, your blood cold with fear, and the air around you thick with rot and silence?

He could still see them — the corpses, those wretched half-living things that had clawed at his resolve with every rasping breath.
They hadn’t just surrounded him.
They had buried something in him.
Left their mark like a grave carved inside his ribs.

Sometimes, he still felt them.
Still wondered if they’d taken his will to live with them when he escaped. If maybe, part of him had drowned there — swallowed up in that awful, endless dark.

And now the sea called like it remembered. Like it wanted him back.

But pride was a dangerous, dangerous thing. And Regulus had plenty of it.

He wanted to prove to Pandora—and maybe to himself—that he didn’t need to be handled gently. That he could exist, function, live, with or without Sirius, with or without the fragile quiet they used to share. That the past was done and buried, even if it still clawed at him when no one was looking.

Sirius sat up straighter, blinking as if trying to decode something more in his brother’s voice. “You don’t have to do that,” he said, slowly, like he was offering a lifeline.

“I didn’t say I had to.” Regulus’s tone didn’t rise, but there was an unmistakable edge in it now—smooth and cold like a blade unsheathed. “I said I will.”

Sirius opened his mouth to protest. “But—”

“Sirius.” Regulus turned fully this time, posture relaxed but eyes like polished glass. There was nothing angry in him—only a kind of finality that settled into the room like dust.

“I’m not here to be babysat,” he said. “And I’m not going to sprawl on a deck chair while everyone else pretends this is some kind of therapeutic retreat. I don’t need a curated holiday experience with optional emotional healing.”
He paused, then added, quieter but no less clear: "I’m not going to lie around while everyone else does things just to make you feel like this is a holiday for me.

Sirius fell silent.

“I’m not made of glass.”

“I never said you were,” Sirius replied, more quietly now. “Actually… I know you’re not. You’ve never been.”

Regulus stepped in closer—not aggressively, but deliberately. His eyes stayed fixed on Sirius, steady and unreadable, like he was daring him to contradict even a breath of what came next.
“I’ll let this go,” he said, voice calm but laced with iron, “Because I don’t feel like getting into a petty argument about how you used to call me a coward.”

Sirius looked away.

“But let me be clear,” Regulus continued, not missing a beat. “I do what I want. I always have. I’m going into town because I feel like it. Not to impress you. Not to help. Not to prove anything to anyone.”
A pause. The air between them felt heavier now.
“Just… because I want to,” he finished, a touch quieter, but still razor-sharp. “And that’s enough.”

Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked at Regulus for a long moment, like he was trying to work out which version of his brother stood in front of him now—the sharp-tongued ghost from the past, or someone newer, someone he hadn’t learned how to read yet.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Yeah—yeah, sorry. You’re right. I’ve just been so… wound up about everything that maybe I overstepped. You’re not a kid. And if you want to go, then—wonderful. Brilliant. Go.”

Regulus arched a brow, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. For a second, just a second, there was a trace of regret. Sirius was genuinely trying, and Regulus could see it, even if it made everything feel messier.

He took a breath.

“What matters is that we’re clear,” he said evenly. “That’s all.”

And then he turned, already done with the conversation, already slipping back behind his armor. Regulus was reaching for the door when a familiar voice interrupted him from behind.

“Ready to go?”

Regulus turned, already bristling.

James stood in the archway, keys dangling from one hand, hair still damp from the shower, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he had all the time in the world. He looked comfortable—of course he did—wearing sun-warmed linen and the kind of ease that made Regulus’s jaw twitch.

“You?” Regulus said, tone clipped. “Out of everyone here, it had to be you?”

James raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “I drive stick and I speak Spanish. You want Evans to flirt their way out of a parking fine?”

Before Regulus could form a cutting reply, Sirius’s voice floated down from the stairs.
“Hey! You’re the one who insisted, little brother. Don’t get picky now.”

Regulus closed his eyes briefly, like he was recalibrating the universe.
“I didn’t know I was signing up for a Potter Day Out,” he muttered, snatching his sunglasses off the table with a sigh.

James crossed the room, slow and easy. “Trust me, Black, I’m as thrilled as you are.”

They both reached for the door at the same time. Regulus let James open it, but not without a sideways glance. “Please tell me we’re not Apparating together.”

James smirked, spinning the keys once around his finger. “We’re taking the car. You know—to blend in with the Muggles. Community spirit.”

Regulus stared at him, unblinking. “The car.”

James widened his eyes mockingly. “You’ve heard of it, I assume. Four wheels. Goes vroom. Revolutionary.”

There was the faintest twitch at the corner of Regulus’s mouth—disdain or amusement, impossible to tell—as he slid on his sunglasses with slow, surgical precision. “How wonderfully rustic,” he murmured, tone dipped in aristocratic boredom.

“You’ll survive,” James said, already turning toward the drive. “Probably.”

Sirius leaned over the bannister overhead, towel still half-falling from his shoulders, grinning like he was front row to a stage play. “Don’t crash,” he called. “I need both of you alive for at least another week.”

Regulus reached the threshold and paused, one foot out, the light catching on the lenses of his glasses. “No promises.”

James exhaled, muttering like a man preparing for battle. “Let’s get this over with.”

The side mirror dangled at a suspicious angle, twitching slightly with every breeze like it had developed a nervous condition, and the back door bore a dent that told the story of a poorly judged turn or perhaps an unfortunate encounter with a particularly vengeful bollard.

Regulus stood beside it, utterly still, arms folded with meticulous precision across his chest. The afternoon sun shimmered off his sunglasses, reflecting the car back at itself like an accusation. He didn’t speak right away. He simply stared at it, as if trying to determine whether it was a cleverly disguised trap or some sort of very specific insult to his dignity. One could almost imagine him wondering if touching it might result in tetanus.

“Is this thing…” he said at last, voice flat and aristocratically offended, “safe?”

James, who was unlocking the driver’s side with a casual sort of indifference, glanced over his shoulder. He looked, for all the world, like a man deeply and sincerely enjoying himself.

“Define safe,” he said, deadpan.

Regulus didn’t laugh. Or smile. Or blink.
“In this case? Functional. Structurally sound. Not cursed. Not—oh god—I’m going to die on this thing—I’ve fought Voldemort and now I’m going to die because—”

“Didn’t know you scared this easily,” James said with a shrug, tossing his towel into the back seat with a dull thud.

Regulus shut up. No. No, he wasn’t going to give James the time of his life. He wasn’t going to be mocked by James Potter.
He would die heroically, then. Without complaint.

James slid into the driver’s seat, calm as ever. “So it hasn’t exploded yet. Which, for a Muggle car, is basically a five-star review.”

“Have you driven it before?”

“Couple times. Mostly around the garden. Once in a straight line for fifteen minutes. Didn’t crash.”

“Inspirational.”

James slid into the driver’s seat. “If you’d rather walk, I’ll save us both the pain.”

Regulus stared at the door handle for half a second longer, his jaw set, expression unreadable behind the reflective lens of his sunglasses. There was a stillness to him that didn’t feel like hesitation—it felt like calculation. Like he was weighing something unspoken, or maybe just silently regretting every decision that had brought him to this moment, in front of this car, with him. He exhaled slowly through his nose and finally, with mechanical precision, pulled the door open and slid inside.

The seat gave a small, unfortunate squeak beneath him, the sound of old summer vinyl sticking briefly to skin and linen. Regulus winced almost imperceptibly—not at the discomfort, but at the sound of it. His posture remained tense, spine straight, shoulders squared like he was bracing for turbulence. He folded his arms across his chest with a kind of quiet finality, as if refusing even the smallest contact with the armrest, the door, or the car itself. He didn’t touch anything. Didn’t adjust the seat, didn’t look around, didn’t relax.

He simply existed there, a pressed, closed-off presence in a car that smelled faintly of sea salt and something plasticky and ancient.

James, in contrast, slid into the driver’s seat with fluid ease, tossing the keys once in his hand before fitting them into the ignition. He glanced sideways at Regulus—just a flick of his eyes, quick and unreadable—then started the engine.

It coughed. A single guttural protest, then reluctantly settled into a low, uneven rumble that vibrated faintly beneath their feet.

Regulus didn’t flinch, but his lips tightened almost imperceptibly.

The silence grew between them like something alive. James drummed his fingers on the steering wheel once. Then again. Then stilled them.

He let out a breath, somewhere between amusement and resignation, and spoke without looking at him. Quietly. Almost to himself.

“I don’t actually know if it’s a good car.” He said it like a confession, casual and unbothered, but the edge of a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Regulus turned his head a fraction, slow and deliberate. His sunglasses reflected the horizon through the windshield, unreadable as always.
“I’m beginning to suspect that nothing about this trip was thought through.”

James smiled fully now. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“It’s my dad’s,” James continued, hands on the wheel like he was trying to make them look casual. “He got it second-hand off some Muggle bloke who swore it had ‘character.’ My mom thinks he paid twice what it’s worth.”
Regulus didn’t speak, but his eyebrow arched behind the sunglasses.
James chuckled, one short breath. “She’s probably right. But hey, it runs. Most days.”

The engine hiccupped again as they pulled onto the narrow road.

“Most days,” Regulus echoed.

James smirked. “You nervous?”

“I’m wearing a shirt that costs more than this entire vehicle. What do you think?”

“I think that’s not an answer.”

Regulus turned back to the window, jaw tight but calm. “I think I’m tolerating this.”

“Tolerating me or the car?”

“…Yes.”

James grinned, not looking at him, the kind of grin that was all teeth and insufferable satisfaction, and regulus absolutely didn't like it. Not one bit.
The road stretched endlessly ahead, blurring at the edges with that golden shimmer only summer mornings could conjure—warm and bright and just slightly too perfect, like a photograph from someone else’s memory.

The drive had been mercifully uneventful, punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional click of James adjusting the radio, which never seemed to actually play music—just static and snippets of Muggle advertisements. Regulus hadn’t said much, content to sit in silence and pretend the ride wasn’t making him vaguely carsick.

James finally pulled into a crooked parking space with a dramatic sigh of triumph, easing off the brake like he’d just finished an arduous quest. He tapped the steering wheel twice, ceremoniously, as if he’d just landed a bloody Quidditch goal in the World Cup finals.

“Look at that. Alive. In one piece. Told you I could drive.” Next to him, Regulus didn’t respond. He just undid his seatbelt and opened the door so quickly it nearly rebounded back into him.

James watched as he stepped out and immediately inhaled deeply through his nose like the car had been slowly suffocating him, he probably was going to throw up. How muggle could use this- this thing he didn't know. “You alright, Your Highness?” James asked, getting out slower.

Regulus gave him a look and extended his middle finger without a word. “Ah. A royal salute.”

“Fuck yourself, Potter,” Regulus managed to grit out, still recovering.
It had been traumatic. At best.

They made their way toward the automatic doors, which swished open with a soft hum. Regulus paused—just for a second—watching them move like magic trying very hard to pretend it wasn’t magic.

James noticed. “First time?”

Regulus gave a short nod, almost a twitch. “And no, I’m not overwhelmed. That was just… an annoyingly polite door.”

James smirked and grabbed a shopping cart, which immediately squeaked in protest.
They started walking through the wide, cold aisles. The fluorescent lights buzzed above them; the floor smelled like lemon cleaner and plastic.
James picked up a box of cereal and tilted it toward Regulus.
“You know you didn’t have to come, right?”

Regulus didn’t look at him. He was reading the label on a tin of tomatoes like it might try to lie to him. “You didn’t have to come either.”

“Host duties,” James said with a shrug. “Comes with the job.”

“You could’ve been swimming. Sirius would have come gladly.”

James glanced at him, a small smirk on his lips.
“And you could’ve been tanning dramatically by the waves. Yet here we are.”

Regulus rolled his eyes and tossed the tin into the cart with unnecessary precision.
“I don’t swim. Like ever.”

James tossed a pack of crisps into the cart.
“Didn’t peg you for the watersports type anyway.”

“I have a fear of water.” Regulus had decided to say it because he knew sooner or later he would have to. Spending a month in a place surrounded by water made it impossible to avoid the topic—someone would notice, someone would ask. And so here he was, admitting one of his secrets to James Bloody Potter.

His voice was steady, almost too calm, as if stating a fact rather than revealing a vulnerability. He kept his gaze fixed somewhere beyond James, trying not to betray the tight knot of discomfort coiling inside him.

James stopped walking. Actually stopped. “What?”

Regulus kept moving, grabbed a jar of pesto and turned it over with the grace of someone examining poison.

“What did you say?” James repeated, catching up. “Did you- did you just say that you’re afraid of water?”

“Yes, Potter, congratulations. You’ve finally heard something correctly.”

“You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Regulus deadpanned. “If I was joking, I’d say I enjoy your company.”

James blinked. “You came to a seaside villa—my seaside villa—with a front-row seat to the literal Mediterranean—while having a fear of water? Are you out of your damn mind?”

"Probably, but hey- what's new?" Regulus threw the pesto in the cart a little harder than necessary. “And Evan, Barty, and Dora needed a break.”

“There are forests,” James said. “Mountains. Cottages. Countryside. Towns. And you chose waves.”

“Sirius invited me here.”

James snorted. “So you do care about him.”

Regulus shot him a venomous glance. “Fuck off, Potter.”

James grinned, slow and delighted, pushing the cart again. “Just saying. You didn’t have to come. And yet…”

“Would you rather I left?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“You’re intolerable.”

“You’re transparent.” Regulus rolled his eyes so hard James could practically hear it.
They kept walking. The cart squeaked with every third step.

Regulus reached for a box of pasta, inspected it, then put it back.

James glanced sideways.
“I mean… I just didn’t picture it.”

“Didn’t picture what?”

“The great Regulus Black. Slayer of Dark Lords. Nemesis of Horcruxes. Terrified of—” James waved a hand vaguely toward the sea. “Moisture.”

Regulus didn’t break stride. “Even gods have their weaknesses. Achilles had his heel. I have chlorine.”

He liked that about James. That he didn’t shift when things got heavy. He didn’t soften, didn’t tilt his head and say something gentle like If you’re scared, I’ll be there, or We can go somewhere else if you want.
Probably because he didn’t care.
If he were Evans, James would’ve stopped the tide with his bare hands. But he wasn’t. And maybe that was fine. Maybe it was better this way—light, impersonal. It made the hollow feeling a little easier to ignore.

James let out a low laugh. “Right. All this time protecting you from curses, and it turns out your arch-nemesis is a slightly overenthusiastic wave.”

“Try drowning once and see how funny it is.”

James opened his mouth, then stopped, unsure how to respond.

Regulus didn’t flinch. He said nothing more. It wasn’t part of the plan to admit that either, but with James, it was easy. James irritated him so much that words slipped out before Regulus could catch them—unfiltered and raw.
The he tossed a box of rice into the cart and moved on.

James followed, quieter now, pushing the cart with one hand.There was a pause, a silence that stretched longer than either expected. Then James shrugged, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Well, that’s… actually fair enough. Water can be a right bastard.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, trying to suppress the grin that was forming around his mouth, idiot. Just an idiot. A bloody damn idiot.

“So. No beach volleyball, then?”

“Not unless you’d like to be impaled with the net post.”

“Pass.”

They turned the corner into the last aisle, and James wasn’t smiling anymore — not really — but something had softened.

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but it was starting to become clear:
Regulus Black was not what he’d expected.

Not even close.

And now curiosity was creeping in. But James knew all too well that whenever he got curious about someone, things tended to spiral into chaos.

Regulus Black wouldn’t be an exception.

3

The breeze from the open window played with the light curtains. The room was quiet, still holding that after-shower softness. Regulus sat on the edge of his bed, freshly changed, composed like always. His posture too perfect, like relaxation was something he had to pretend.

When the door creaked open, Lily stepped inside, untying her hair from a loose knot, cheeks flushed from the sun, and a beach towel draped over one arm.

She froze for just a moment when she saw him already there.
“Hey,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Didn’t crash the car,” Regulus replied. “Somehow.”
Lily smiled and walked to her side of the room. She was quiet for a moment, setting her things down with deliberate movements, but her eyes flicked to him more than once — not quite furtive, but not bold either.

She sat, finally, perching on the edge of the bed.

“Waiting for Pandora?”

“She said she’d unpack after seeing the beach,” Regulus said lightly.
“I’m just trying to stay out of the way.”

Lily studied him then — openly. Not rudely. Just… curious. “Is that your default setting?”

Regulus tilted his head. “What?”

“Staying out of the way.”

He didn’t answer at once. She didn’t push. Just sat there, calm, like she could wait all afternoon. Then he said, quietly: “It tends to be safer. Less nosier. People hate nosy people.”

Lily nodded slowly, filing that away. “I don’t think we’ve ever actually had a conversation before this trip.”

“Shame. I’m very charming once you get to the seventh layer.” She laughed — gently, not mockingly.

“I believe it.” A beat. Then— “Honestly, I’m trying to figure you out.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “You’re doing it out loud?”

“I think better out loud,” she said. “And I don’t know what you like. Or what makes you laugh. Or if you’re the kind of person who hates sand in their shoes or secretly enjoys complaining about it. But you're weird. A good kind of weird.”

Regulus blinked. That — that was not what he’d expected. “You’re… curious?”

“I’m a Gryffindor with a Ravenclaw heart,” she said, like that explained everything.
“I don’t like not knowing things.”

He looked at her then — properly. Not guarded. Not cold. Just…interested.
“And what have you worked out so far, detective Evans?”

She smiled, tilting her head in mock-consideration. “You like silence more than people. You hate inefficiency unless you’re the one being inefficient. You’re ten times cleverer than you let on. You’re pretending this vacation isn’t slowly killing your soul.”
She paused, then added, almost offhand:
“And you don’t actually hate James as much as you’d like everyone to believe.”

There was a beat. Then Regulus blinked again — slower this time, more deliberate.
“You were doing well until that last part,” he said calmly.
“And that, Lily, is precisely why the Hat sorted you into Gryffindor. A Ravenclaw would have known better than to make assumptions.”

She smiled — the kind that didn’t believe him for a second.“We’ll see.”
He didn’t respond. But he didn’t look away, either.
And outside the window, the sea kept breathing — steady and far away.

The door clicked open again, soft this time.

Pandora stepped inside, barefoot, her hair tied back with a scarf, cheeks a little flushed from the walk. She held a folded towel under one arm and a bottle of something sparkly in the other.

Lily smiled at her from the bed.
“You’re next. I’ve hogged the bathroom long enough.”

Pandora nodded, warm and easy, and Lily slid out with a wave, closing the door behind her.

Silence settled again. Pandora didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at Regulus for a long moment — really looked at him.
He was sitting by the window, legs drawn up onto the bench seat, arms folded loosely. His face was unreadable. But his shoulders — they looked like they were carrying something heavy.

She stepped forward. “Hey.”

Regulus turned his head slightly. “Hey.”

A pause. Then Pandora spoke — not teasing, not light. “I’ve been meaning to say this since we got here.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow.

“I pushed you into this.” She didn’t hedge. “The trip. The people. The noise. I know what you’re like, Reg. I’ve known for years. You hate shared spaces. You hate chaos. And this—” she gestured around them, at the half-unpacked room, the muffled laughter from downstairs, the heat, the voices —“this is a lot.”

Regulus looked down at his hands. Quiet.

Pandora sat across from him, close but not touching. “I thought it’d be good for you,” she said. “But maybe it was selfish. Maybe I just wanted you here because we wanted to feel normal. And I didn’t think enough about what it would cost you.”

Regulus didn’t answer for a while. Then, softly- “It was the right call.”

Pandora looked up, surprised. “Really?”

He nodded once, slow. “Because now I know.”

“Know what?”

His voice was steady, but not cold. “That I’m not okay.”

Pandora inhaled gently, watching him.

“I can’t—” He stopped. Searched for the words. “Twelve people in one house feels like an ambush. The noise makes my ears ring. I can’t relax, not really. I can’t breathe the way they do, like it’s normal. Like it’s easy.”

His fingers curled slightly against the fabric of his trousers. “And I thought I could just… fake it. Be sharp enough. Controlled enough. Make it look like it’s fine. But it’s not. It hasn’t been fine for a long time.”

Pandora didn’t move, but her gaze softened, her voice quiet.

“You’ve been through hell, Reg.” Her words honest. Just honest.
“Of course it’s not fine. That cave—what it did to you—it left a mark. Not just on your body. On your soul. Your mind.” She hesitated, like the words weighed more than she’d expected. “Months of hiding. Sleeping with your wand under your pillow. Jumping at every sound. Voldemort on your heels like a fucking shadow—of course it left a scar.”

He gave a short, dry laugh. “Yes, well. We’re Blacks, aren’t we? Our family motto isn’t exactly ‘get help.’”

Pandora smiled, but it was sad.

Regulus looked out the window, the sea far beyond the trees.
“Maybe I need to unlearn that.”

Silence stretched again — not awkward, just full. Then Pandora said, gently- “You’re still here. That’s something. Maybe the others don't really know this but you're trying. You're trying so hard- and I'm so proud of you-”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” She leaned forward, just a little. “It means you still want to try.”

Regulus didn’t speak again. But he didn’t look away either.
The sky outside had turned lavender-blue, the heat of the day slipping into something cooler, quieter.

Pandora folded a light throw at the end of the bed while Regulus sat on the window seat, legs drawn up, chin resting against his knee.

He hadn’t spoken for a while. She watched him from the corner of her eye.
“Are you thinking about tonight?”

It wasn’t a question. Regulus didn’t move. But his jaw tensed. Just slightly.
He closed his eyes, took a slow breath.

“Pandora.”

“Regulus.” She said it with that same calm steel she always used when he got like this — when he tried to be noble instead of honest.

He opened his eyes again.
“I can’t—” he started, voice low. Then stopped.

Pandora sat on the edge of her bed, facing him, hands folded gently in her lap.
“He’ll hear it, won’t he?” she said quietly.

A beat.

“James?”

Regulus nodded once.

“So will Sirius.”

There it was.

The truth he didn’t want to say out loud. The reason he’d been stiff all afternoon, why he hadn’t unpacked fully, why he kept his wand under the pillow.

He wasn’t afraid of sleeping. He was afraid of being heard.

“It’s not every night,” he said. “But when it happens— I… I wake up choking on it. On what I saw. On what I—”

He cut himself off.

Pandora’s voice was gentle. “And you think if they hear you—Sirius, James—they’ll see it as weakness.”

Regulus didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Pandora reached for the candle on the nightstand, her fingers steady even as her heart clenched. The match flared in the dark, a brief spark of defiance before settling into a quiet flame. She let it flicker between them, casting soft gold over Regulus’s face — all sharp angles and haunted shadows.

“You’re not weak,” she said, voice low but unwavering. “You’re traumatized. Those are different things.” Regulus didn’t answer at first. His jaw tightened. His eyes stayed fixed on the far wall, like if he looked at her, the truth of it might unravel him.

“Not to the rest of the world,” he said finally, the words like splinters. “Not to me. Not to the person I want them to see. Strong. Independent. A fucking war hero.”

Pandora exhaled sharply, not angry — but furious in the way that only someone who loves you can be.
“Fuck the rest of the world,” she said, sitting forward now, the candlelight catching in her eyes. “And fuck this—this thing you’ve built. This cage. This impossible standard. This version of yourself that you bleed for, that you kill yourself trying to live up to.”

Regulus flinched. She didn’t stop.

“Fuck this pressure you drag around like it’s your birthright. Fuck your obsession with being untouchable. With looking like you’re fine when you’re breaking apart.”

She paused, voice cracking — not with weakness, but with effort. With care.
“And fuck you, Regulus Black, for putting your pride above your safety. Above your rest. Above the people who actually give a damn about you.”

Silence dropped like a weight between them. Thick. Uncompromising.

Regulus blinked once, slowly.
And for a moment, just one, he looked ten years younger — not the war hero, not the sharp-tongued legend. Just a boy, with salt-stung lungs and nowhere left to run, searching for his big brother.

And then- he actually laughed. Just once. Barely.

She stood quietly, walked the few steps toward him, and settled beside him on the window bench with the kind of grace that didn’t need permission. The candle on the dresser flickered behind her, casting long, slow-moving shadows over the floor. Regulus didn’t look at her, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“You came here for Sirius,” she said gently. “I know that.”

He scoffed, turning his head just slightly to the side. “You’re wrong,” he muttered, eyes narrowing at the night outside. “You dragged me here.”

“Yes, well,” she replied, with a shrug of her shoulders and a faint smile, “I’m persuasive.” There was a beat. Then her voice dropped — quieter now, more certain.
“But you said yes. And I know it wasn’t for the sea view.”

Regulus inhaled slowly. Still didn’t look at her.

“You never say yes unless you really want to,” she continued. “You never do anything you don’t want to.”

For a long time, he didn’t speak.

Then his hands — pale, fine-boned, trembling faintly — curled into loose fists in his lap. He stared at them like they belonged to someone else.
“I just…” His voice was low, ragged. “I can’t let him hear me like that. Not when I’ve spent all this time pretending I’ve survived it whole.”

Pandora didn’t speak. She didn’t reach for him. She just waited — silent, patient, immovable. A presence, not a pressure.

“I know he doesn’t expect perfection,” Regulus went on, a bitter twist in his mouth. “I know that. But if he hears me shatter…” His jaw tensed. “Then maybe he’ll see everything I’ve worked so hard to hide. All the pieces that didn’t fit back together.”

He finally looked up at her then — and it wasn’t anger in his eyes. It wasn’t pride. It was something rawer than either.
“I need to- to show him, Dora. Not because he asked me to. But because I can’t bear the thought of him seeing the truth and walking away.”

Pandora’s expression softened. Her gaze didn’t pity. It anchored.
“You survived,” she said simply. “Not whole, maybe. But that doesn’t mean you’re not worthy of being seen. You don’t have to prove it. Not to me. Not to him. And definitely not to yourself.”

Then she nodded. "But if you're not ready- we'll not give him the chance. To see you at your worst.”

He looked at her. And she smiled.
“Tonight, I’ll help you. I’ll cast the silencing charm. I’ll make sure it holds. You sleep. And if it happens…” Her voice softened even more. “You won’t be alone.”

He didn’t speak for a long time, but the weight in his chest had shifted—just slightly, just enough.

Then- “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Catch me before I fall.”

Pandora rested her hand lightly on his.
“That’s because I see you coming from miles away.”

4

The dishes had been cleared. Someone had opened a second bottle of wine. Laughter still clung to the corners of the room like steam after a bath, warm and echoing — but the center of the table had grown quieter. More focused.

Regulus sat with one ankle crossed over the other, glass of water untouched in front of him. The candlelight played along his cheekbones, and he looked as out of place as ever — not for lack of effort, but for how still he was. As if the air around him didn’t touch.

Sirius sat a seat or two down, eyes flicking toward him now and then, as if unsure when was the right time to speak. He turned slightly, chin lifted with casual precision.
“I never asked,” he said, voice neutral. “But what happened to them? Our parents.”

The words dropped into the center of the group like a stone into still water.
Regulus looked up sharply. A few heads turned.

“Mother,” Sirius continued. “Father. Where did they end up?”

Regulus' mouth opened. Closed. Then, quieter- “Mother had a stroke. First year of the war.”

His brother tilted his head. "Oh I didn't know that-"

“It was quick,” he said, eyes unreadable. "She didn’t suffer.” A pause. “Father… didn’t make it out of Grimmauld. He was bedridden when the fire started, or so I think. I wasn't- I wasn't there at that time.”

Sirius blinked slowly. The reaction was microscopic — a slight shift of his shoulders, a tightening of his jaw. He gave a faint hum.
“Well,” he said, taking a sip of water, “that saves me the trouble of doing it myself.”

Someone coughed awkwardly. “And on that uplifting note—” started Lily, but before she could redirect, Mary leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand.

“Okay but — hold up. Baby Black, how did you do it?”
She grinned, teasing but genuinely curious.
“You know. The thing. The whole… kill-the-darkest-wizard-of-our-age stunt. That wasn’t exactly beginner-level magic.”

Regulus’s smile faded. Something cold settled in his shoulders. “It wasn’t a stunt.”

“You know what I mean.”

Marlene jumped in, flippant as always. “One minute we’re bleeding in the mud, next minute: poof, Voldemort’s gone. And then a box shows up like ‘surprise, bitch, I ended the war.’”

A few people chuckled. Regulus didn’t.

He ran a single finger along the rim of his glass, slow and even, like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. “Abracadabra,” he said flatly. “All it took.”
It should’ve been a joke. Maybe even sounded like one. But his voice didn’t bend.

And beneath the surface — deep beneath the practiced elegance of that deadpan tone — something else had started to stir.

His skin began to prickle, sharp and tight, like it didn’t quite fit. His breath shortened by half. His vision flickered—not outward, but inward. His brain, traitorous and precise, had already started projecting the memories in cruel clarity: bodies dragging him down into the black water, cold fingers on his ankles. The violent pulse of explosive spells draining his magic like marrow from bone. Shadows, hissing and sentient, stretching from cursed relics like they wanted to peel his soul clean. Screams echoing through stone. Laughter—his laughter, Voldemort’s—too close, too bright. The burn of Apparition on raw nerves, over and over again, without rest.

And his legs. Always his legs. Refusing to hold him, but he had to keep moving. Had to. Because the second he stopped, he was dead.

The breath on his neck. Voldemort’s breath.

His hands twitched open, then closed. Again. His body taut and poised—not for battle, but for escape. He could feel the wand strapped to his thigh. Solid. Safe.
He could still see the soft blonde of Pandora’s hair out of the corner of his eye. Safe.
He could still feel Barty’s hand from earlier, grounding and warm on his shoulder. Safe.

He was fine.

He was safe.

These were just questions.
Just noise.
Just curiosity.

Mary tilted her head, her voice gentler. “Come on, don’t be like that. You must’ve done something brilliant. We’re just—curious.”

“Curious,” Regulus echoed. “Or nosy?”

James raised a brow. “Mate, you dropped a bomb on the world and vanished. You can’t blame people for having questions.”

“I can when they ask them like I’m a bloody newspaper column.”

“You were a Death Eater,” someone said — “And then you weren’t. Then Voldemort died. And you didn’t say a word.”

“No one knew,” Marlene added. “You could’ve been dead. Or defected. Or—”

“Or maybe I didn’t feel the need to explain myself to people who never gave a damn about me.”

The air snapped.

Marlene narrowed her eyes. “That’s not fair. We fought hard too.”

"No one has said otherwise." Regulus leaned back, eyes hard. “And like you I bled. I adapted. I infiltrated. I survived more things than I can count, and more than I care to remember.” His voice dropped, sharper.
“I was sent to murder people who had names. I was told I might not come back. And I didn’t. Not really.”
Silence fell like a curtain. “So maybe,” he continued, lower now, “you don’t get to ask for the full tale over dessert like it’s a bedtime story.”

Pandora moved, as if to reach for him, but stopped.

Dorcas said, “You could’ve said something. Told someone.”
But there was no accusation in her voice—just sadness. A quiet kind of ache that settled behind her eyes like smoke, impossible to clear. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t bitterness. It was the grief of someone who had been there. With them, for them, among them.

Until she couldn’t be.

Until the Mark.

And Regulus knew. He knew.

He knew they had betrayed her. Pushed her out, not because she was weak, or wrong, or unworthy—but because she couldn’t afford the cost of staying. She had something to lose. She had lines she would not cross. And that made her dangerous. That made her… expendable.

But he couldn’t let her get hurt. He just couldn’t.

Knowing meant death. Not immediately. Not always. But it meant a target painted across your spine, quiet eyes tracking your movements, conversations that stopped when you entered the room. Knowing meant becoming disposable.

And he was done bringing that kind of death to people he cared about.

So he had kept quiet. And now here she was—eyes full of absence, full of something broken—and she was asking why.

But instead of answering, instead of telling her any of it, Regulus only went stiller. Smaller. Like a trap door closing behind his ribs. Because somewhere deep inside, where shame met silence, he thought: It’s my fault.

Her sadness was on his hands.

And he didn’t know how to hold that without crumbling.
Regulus’s laugh was soft, but hollow. “So you could spread it around like campfire gossip? Wonderful.” He stood.
“If that’s why I’m here — to be your latest party anecdote — then save me the wine. I’ll pack my things.”

Pandora rose, voice calm. “Reg—”

He didn’t look at her. Just said, with a dry smile:
“Twelve hours. That’s how long I lasted. You should be proud.”
And then he turned and walked out, leaving the table silent and blinking in the candlelight.

The air was cooler now, touched by the soft bite of evening. It carried the scent of wet grass and distant salt, a mingling of earth and sea that clung to the skin like memory. The sky above had deepened into a velvet blue, the kind that seemed to stretch forever, infinite and uncaring.
Regulus walked fast, his boots silent on the stone path, arms stiff at his sides.

“Regulus!”

Sirius’s voice was closer than expected.

Regulus didn’t stop.

“Reg, wait—”

“Don’t,” Regulus snapped, not turning around. “Just let it go. You’ve all had your little moment.”

“It’s not about them.”

That made him stop. Slowly. Not turning — just pausing. His back to Sirius. Shoulders sharp with tension. “Then what is it about?”
His voice was low. Controlled. “Is this where you tell me I overreacted? That I should smile and answer questions about torture over pudding?”

Sirius exhaled, stepped closer.
“No. That’s not what I’m saying.”

Regulus still didn’t move.

“Then why are you following me, Sirius?” His voice was quieter now. Tired.
“What’s the point? So you can play peacekeeper? Offer a hug? Remind me that I was never the fun brother but at least I’m useful now?”

Sirius winced.
“I followed you because I didn’t want you to leave like this.”

Finally, Regulus turned. His eyes glittered in the moonlight — not with tears, but something sharper. Rage. Disappointment. Exhaustion.

“You didn’t want me to leave like this?”
He took a step forward, voice low, biting.
“You didn’t want me to leave like what, Sirius? Like someone who’s been dissected all dinner and told to be grateful for it?”

Sirius didn’t answer.

Regulus scoffed. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to care now just because I did something useful. Just because I didn’t die.”

“Stop it.” Sirius’s voice cracked, not loud but raw.
“That’s not why. That’s not— That’s never been why.”

Regulus laughed, bitter and breathless.
“Oh, come on. You hated me. You told me to rot. You left and never looked back.”

“No- it's- it's not like that. I looked. I wrote.”

“Well as I said- I never got a single one.” Regulus’s voice was flat, empty.
“I thought you’d vanished. I thought you were relieved to be free of me.”

Sirius shook his head.
“No. I thought… I thought if I stayed away long enough, maybe you’d follow. Maybe you’d see the cracks too. Maybe you’d get out.”

Regulus laughed again, but it wasn’t kind.
“Get out? Sirius, I was a child. You ran, and you left me there with them.”

“I know.” Sirius stepped closer, voice fraying at the edges.
“I know I did. And I’ll regret it every day I breathe. But I was terrified. I didn’t know how to save you. I didn’t know how to save myself.”

Regulus looked at him, and for a moment — just a flicker — the mask cracked.
“You didn’t have to save me.”
His voice broke, a breath, not a sob.
“You just had to see me.”

Sirius’s face twisted like someone punched him.

“I do now. And Im so sorry I got lost in the meantime.”
He stepped even closer. “But I see you now. And I don’t want to look away again.”
“You’re all I’ve got left. Mum and Dad are dead, thank Merlin — but that means you are what’s left of my family. And I’m not wasting that.”

Regulus didn’t move. “You were never interested in who I really was, Sirius. Always the coward. The little prince. The puppet.”

“Then let me learn now. How wrong I was. How stupid I was.”
The silence held for a long, long moment. Only the sound of the sea beyond the trees. The wind stirring leaves.

Regulus looked at him like someone trying to decide if he was real.
And Sirius—Sirius took a breath. Slow. Centered. “When the war ended,” he said, voice rough, “something hit me. Hard. You know what it was?”

Regulus said nothing. The air between them tightened.

Sirius went on. “It wasn’t the relief. It wasn’t even the people we lost. It was the time.” He gestured vaguely behind him, as if the past were still dragging on his heels.
“How much of it I wasted. How many things I didn’t say. How many people I let disappear.”
He swallowed. Looked at Regulus without flinching.
“I don’t want to live like that anymore. Not in silence. Not with regrets. Not with my brother out in the world thinking I don’t give a damn if he lives or dies.”

Regulus didn’t look away. But he didn’t speak either.

Sirius stepped closer. His voice dropped.
“Leaving you… walking out of that house and slamming the door and pretending you didn’t matter — that was the biggest fucking mistake of my life.”

A pause. And then, gentler, raw- “I want to be better. I want to be what I wasn’t before. For you. Not because of what you did. Not because you’re an ‘unexpected hero,’ or whatever they’re calling you now. None of that.”

His hand opened slightly at his side.
“Just because you’re you. And you’re still here. And that means I have time to fix it. To choose you, Reg. To finally make you a priority.”

Regulus stood silent, jaw tight, breath caught somewhere behind his teeth.

And Sirius, quieter now, nearly pleading—

“Can I do that?” A beat. “Can I still try?”

Regulus rolled his eyes. Because he was too fucking weak. He always had been. He’d always fall for that look in Sirius’s eyes, for the way his voice cracked just a little when it mattered. He’d done it as a child, at five years old, chasing after Sirius’s shadow like it was the only safe place in the world. And he’d do it again, and again, until the end. Because despite everything—despite the distance, the silence, the years of rot and blood and choices—Sirius had been safety. He had been arms and warmth and grins in the dark.
He had been home.

Regulus exhaled through his nose, resigned.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But if you start crying, I’m leaving.”

5

When Regulus stepped back into the room, the conversation stopped.
It wasn’t abrupt—just a subtle shift, like a needle skipping on a record. The kind of pause that said we were talking about you.

The lights were dimmer now. Someone had turned on a lamp in the corner that cast everything in amber. The sharp edges of the evening had softened; wine glasses had disappeared in favour of mismatched mugs of tea and the occasional click of a spoon against porcelain. It was domestic. Almost kind.

Sirius trailed a step behind him, slower now, like he didn’t quite want to walk beside Regulus in case it scared him off. He didn’t say anything, but his presence pulsed quietly in the space between them.

Regulus didn’t sit. Just stood, arms loosely folded, gaze skimming over everyone like he was taking inventory. No one met his eyes, not properly.

Then Lily cleared her throat, gentle and uncertain.
“Regulus…”He tilted his head, just barely. A signal he was listening, not necessarily engaging. She hesitated. Her fingers curled tighter around her mug.
“I think… we pushed too hard.”

There it was. A careful admission. Not quite an apology, but something adjacent. Something reaching.

“I know we don’t understand,” she went on, quieter now, “and maybe we never will. But that doesn’t mean we had a right to ask the way we did.”
Regulus’s jaw flexed once. His posture didn’t change, but something behind his expression shifted—like a wall rearranging its bricks, just slightly.

Remus nodded from the armchair, his posture calm but his voice firm.
“We all did,” he said. “We pushed. Harder than we should’ve.”

There was a pause — not awkward, but necessary. The kind that let truth settle.

Marlene shifted forward in her seat, her eyes meeting Regulus’s with a mix of regret and honesty.
“You don’t owe us anything,” she said, slowly. “And honestly, we should’ve known better. I mean… I’ve never talked about York. Not once. Not even to Dorcas. And I still have dreams about it. Still wake up with my heart in my throat.”

Her voice didn’t break, but there was something raw beneath it. Something shared.

James was next, his hands resting on the table, fingers curling slightly.
“There are things Sirius and I went through during that first year of the war—things we don’t talk about. Not with each other, not with anyone.”
He exhaled through his nose, gaze heavy.
“And I was a proper idiot, pushing you to explain what happened to you, like it was owed to me. It wasn’t.”

Remus nodded again.
“Trauma doesn’t evaporate just because the world says it’s safe now.”

Regulus hadn’t moved. Not yet.
He stood with his arms crossed, not defensively, but as if holding something steady inside himself. His gaze lingered on each of them, one by one, as if seeing them in a different light — not as people expecting something from him, but people offering something instead.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than usual.
“I appreciate that,” he said, the syllables deliberate. “That you see I’m not… a project. Or a symbol. Or some story you get to wrap up in a neat bow and call it closure.”

The room held its breath. No one interrupted.

He looked down, jaw tight, like weighing each word.
“But…” he hesitated, then glanced up again, gaze a little softer. “Maybe I overreacted. A little.”

There was a startled puff of laughter from Mary — quick and genuine, like a crack in the tension.
Regulus’s lips twitched, almost a smile.
“I tend to shut down,” he admitted. “Pull away. It’s instinct. Kept me alive, I guess. But it’s hard to switch off, even now. Even when I want to.”

He shifted, fingers tapping once against his arm, a small unconscious movement.
“You don’t know that about me. Not really. So… maybe I was too quick to decide what you all meant. What this meant.”

The silence that followed was no longer heavy, but open.

Marlene raised her mug, eyebrows lifting.
“To not drawing conclusions too fast.”

Dorcas, curled beside her, smirked and added,
“To not interrogating people like we work for Magical Law Enforcement.”

The laughter that followed wasn’t forced.
It was brief and quiet and honest. The kind that came from tired people learning to breathe again.

And Regulus — he let himself breathe with them.

It wasn’t everything. But it was enough for tonight.

The night softened again, like someone had exhaled after holding their breath too long. Whatever tension had twisted around their shoulders began to loosen — not entirely, but enough to breathe.

They began to drift, one by one. Yawns were half-hidden behind hands, half-hearted goodnights murmured as cups were rinsed and left to dry by the sink. Slippers were found and shrugged on. Upstairs, lights flicked on in a slow sequence, like stars reappearing.

Regulus lingered behind. He didn’t look like he was waiting for anything, just… delaying. He moved with quiet efficiency, pulling a blanket from the linen closet and unfolding it with the kind of practiced care that suggested he’d done this before — not just tonight, but often. The couch wasn’t glamorous. It dipped slightly in the middle and one of the arms squeaked if you leaned on it wrong. But it was quiet. And private. Enough.

He crouched to adjust the blanket, smoothing the corners out with slow, deliberate hands. That was when he heard them — soft footsteps behind him. He paused, head tilted slightly, but didn’t turn right away.

James stood there, awkward as ever, hands buried in the pockets of his grey sweatpants, shoulders hunched like he wasn’t quite sure whether to stay or bolt. His hair was still damp from a late shower, curling slightly at the edges, and his socks didn’t match. Somehow that made him look even more ridiculous. And, worse, sincere.

He hesitated — just for a second — then extended a hand, palm up, fingers splayed in mock ceremony.
“Ceasefire?” he offered, tone light, like he could joke his way out of how charged everything had been an hour ago.

Regulus looked at the hand. Then at James. Then back at the hand again, as if it might spontaneously combust from the sheer audacity of the gesture.
“Are we five?” he asked dryly, one brow arching high enough to reach orbit.

“Emotionally? I feel like I’m three,” James admitted, mouth twitching into a crooked almost-smile. He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Sorry- I’m— bad at this.”

Regulus tilted his head just slightly, a faint flicker of something — amusement? pity? reluctant affection? — crossing his features before vanishing again.
“No shit.” Regulus didn’t move.

"As you said-" James shifted his weight, and added, dryly- “I’m like a golden retriever. I panic when people are upset with me.”

That earned a visible eye-roll. “Oh, how tragic. The poor Gryffindor golden boy needs emotional reassurance.”

“I said I was bad at this, not immune to it.”

Regulus looked at the outstretched hand again. Then, after a beat, he took it. Firm. Brief. “Fine. Ceasefire.”

“And maybe… I dunno, actual conversation next time?”

“Don’t get greedy, Potter.”

James grinned. “I’ll take what I can get.” Then veered casually to the other couch, flopping onto it with all the elegance of a cat knocking something off a shelf on purpose.

Regulus closed his eyes for a long second. “Is it too late to ask for a room?”

James leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Probably. But you could try crawling into Sirius’s bed. I’m sure he’d be thrilled.”

“I’d rather sleep under the sink.”

James smirked. “With the mop? Romantic.”

Regulus tugged the blanket tighter around himself, voice dry as bone. “Do you at least plan on shutting up at some point tonight?”

“What, you don’t want to hear my magical lullaby?” James shot back, grinning into the dim light.

A beat.

“I will set this couch on fire with you on it,” Regulus muttered, turning toward the backrest like he was already done with the conversation.

James laughed softly, voice warm as he settled into the cushions. “Dreamy. Goodnight, Regulus.”

There was a pause, only the faint rustle of fabric as Regulus adjusted again. Then, under his breath- “Tragically, it still is.”

Chapter Text

2:00 a.m.

In and out.

The air didn’t help.
It tasted of old wood and sea salt, thick with the kind of stillness that made him feel like something was watching. Not actively — just… waiting. His breath hitched once, then again, and he forced it through his nose. Slow. Even. But each time he blinked, the ceiling looked different, closer somehow. Like the room was tilting imperceptibly in the dark.

In and out.

Outside, the wind shifted. A tree branch scratched against a window frame. Soft, rhythmic. Too rhythmic. It made his stomach curl.
The silence of the house had a texture — like velvet pulled tight across the walls, muffling everything but the sudden cracks in the wooden beams. Each one made him jolt. Not visibly. Just inside. A twitch of a muscle. A flicker behind the ribs. His wand was close — always close — tucked beneath the blanket along his leg. But even that wasn’t enough to keep his body from reacting like it had learned to, long ago: ready. Always.

In and out.

A floorboard creaked overhead. Just the house. Just someone shifting. A footstep. No — just the wood. Just the fucking wood.

In and out.

3:00 a.m.

In and out.

His eyes snapped open again, though he hadn’t noticed them drifting shut. His arm still covered part of his face, but now his body was too alert, skin buzzing faintly like static beneath the surface. The inside of his mouth was dry.
The coat hanging from the door hook cast a long, angular shadow on the floor.
Regulus stared at it for several seconds. Then looked away. Then back again.

It hadn’t moved. Of course it hadn’t moved.

But his spine had gone stiff, cold sweat gathering at the nape of his neck.
He sat up slowly, the blanket sliding down his chest, limbs aching from holding tension for hours that hadn’t passed. The clock on the wall ticked, cruel and slow. Barely past three.

Another hour. Another branch. Another blink. He wasn’t sure he could do this for a month. He tried to breathe slowly.

In.

Out.

He counted seconds.

Ten.

Twenty.

Thirty.

A clock ticked, far down the hall. Someone upstairs turned in their bed — the faint groan of floorboards made him flinch.

He shifted onto his side, then back.

Then onto his other side.

The ticking continued. In and out.

A shirt draped over a nearby chair twisted in the breeze, cast by the open window — and for a split second, it looked like a person. A figure.

His breath caught in his throat, wand in hand.

Just fabric. Just air. But still he trembled. His mind refused to shut up. Not with silence. Not with darkness. Not with reason.
Every memory filed away, every instinct dulled by daylight, came back with sharp teeth. Faces that didn’t move anymore. Sounds that only lived in the cracks of silence. The smell of stone and rot and damp. The weight of magic that hadn’t faded. Of hands dragging him down, pulling, choking. Of cold water closing over his head.

He pressed his palms against his eyes until stars sparked in the dark.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Again.

And again. Once more.

It didn’t help. His chest was tight, like something was curled inside his ribs, waiting for him to let his guard down. He turned on his side, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders, but it felt too heavy now — like pressure, like warning. The cushion dipped just slightly under his head, and he imagined — for a moment — the hand that might be beneath it, pressing upward.

The window creaked. A car passed far off on the road, headlights casting long streaks through the gaps in the curtain.

He counted. One. Two. Three. Waited for them to fade.
But the shadows in the room remained. The ones that weren’t cast by headlights. The ones that didn’t move.

He knew they weren’t real. He knew. But his body didn’t.
So he lay there, still as he could, every muscle tight with the kind of tension that didn’t fade with time — only built, second by second.

Because the silence wasn’t empty.
And the darkness… wasn’t safe.

He heard the sea, far off — that endless, dragging pull of water against sand. Too close. Too open. Every minute stretched. His body was exhausted. His bones ached with it. But sleep never came. His fingers curled tightly around the edge of the blanket, knuckles white.
The wind outside knocked something loose — a shutter, maybe. Or a memory.

He sat up sharply, heart pounding.

His chest was too tight. His ears rang. His skin prickled with cold sweat despite the heat. The house was not hostile — but it wasn’t home. It didn’t know him.
Every sound was a stranger. Every silence, unfamiliar.
He say like that for a while, running a hand down his face, fingers pressed hard over his mouth as if to keep something in — a sigh, a cry, a name. The blanket slipped off his shoulders and pooled at his waist.
The moonlight had shifted, painting sharp lines on the carpet.

4:00 a.m.

Regulus decided — with the cold lucidity of the sleepless — that four in the morning was an entirely reasonable hour to be awake. If someone had seen him padding through the hallway at that time, he could have blamed it on being perpetually an early riser. On Quidditch practice. On NEWTs and late-night revision. All very believable. All very reasonable.

Because he had slept. Obviously. He had rested. The sofa was comfortable. He was fine. The ghosts of the past hadn’t kept him awake. The soft, rhythmic crackle of the sea hadn’t reminded him of the way his lungs had once begged for air while water clawed its way down his throat.

No — it had kissed his ears like a lullaby.

And that’s how he found Remus Lupin in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hands curled around the handle of a chipped teapot. The kettle whistled faintly behind him.

Thank Merlin it was Lupin and not Sirius. If it had been Sirius, he might’ve lost his mind.

Remus turned, visibly surprised. “You’re up early.”

Regulus blinked, slow and deliberate. “I could say the same to you.”

“You could,” Remus agreed, unfazed. “But I have a documented history of insomnia. What’s your excuse? Alarm set for a pre-dawn duel?”

Regulus gave a tired smile, not quite mocking. “I’m simply a beacon of discipline. Up before the sun, mind honed, spirit cleansed.”

“Ah yes, the Black family creed. Sleep is for the unmotivated.” Remus poured the tea into two mismatched mugs and slid one across the counter. “Milk?”

“I’m not a monster.” Remus arched a brow, but didn’t argue. He added a precise dash and stirred with care. The silence that followed was companionable in theory, but undercut with too many sharp edges. Like two swords resting hilt to hilt.

Regulus took a sip and winced. “You made it strong enough to peel paint.”

Remus shrugged. “It’s four in the morning. I’m not here to impress.” Then he leaned against the counter, folding his arms. “Strange James isn’t here. He usually joins me.”

"At 4 in the morning?"

Remus paused — just a beat too long. And something flickered behind his eyes. A ghost of something. Regret. Pain. Or maybe a grief he’d locked away and wasn’t ready to name. “Yeah well—” he faked a laugh, short and off-key. Now Regulus was even more curious.
“He doesn’t sleep well outside London,” Remus said finally, neutral and dry as parchment.

“Ah.” Regulus glanced away, fingers tightening around the mug. “Weird. This is his home as well.”

Remus’s mouth twitched. “Figures.”

And Regulus should’ve stopped. Should’ve dropped it. Should’ve sipped his oversteeped tea, nodded once like a normal person, and let it go.
But something about the way Remus said it—sharp, tired, knowing—slid under his skin. He looked at the kitchen window instead, where a sliver of sky was starting to pale into grey. He wasn’t curious. That wasn’t his thing. He didn’t get invested.

Not in people.

Certainly not in James Potter.

He didn’t care. He didn’t. He let the discussion fall. Another silence.
Regulus shifted his weight, clearly thinking of retreat. But Remus beat him to it.

“You know,” Remus said, voice softer, “he talks about you sometimes. When he thinks no one hears.” Sirius. Obviously Remus had to talk about him. His long lasting lover and happiness. Regulus didn’t respond. Just sipped again, more slowly.
“You were both boys,” Remus continued, not looking at him. “Once.”

“You say that like it was a long time ago.”

“Wasn’t it?” Remus finally turned to face him, tone still even, but eyes sharp now. “You burned the house down. And he still keeps a room for you in his mind. Do you even want it?”

Regulus met his gaze head-on, jaw tight. “I didn’t come in here to be dissected.”

“No,” Remus said, calm again. “You came in for tea. And to pretend you’re not haunted.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “Do you always play therapist at dawn, or am I just special?”

“You’re just obvious,” Remus said, dryly.

Regulus huffed. Then, quietly: “I could’ve used tea like this when I was sixteen.”

“You could’ve used a lot of things.” There was no venom in it. Just truth, laid bare on the countertop between them.

Regulus looked down at his mug. “Did he ask you to watch me?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

Regulus considered it. “No.”

Remus smiled thinly. “Then we understand each other.”

They drank in silence for a while, the edge between them no less sharp — but no longer drawn. Not yet truce. But not war either. Just two men, tired and bleeding in ways they rarely admitted, quietly sharing the early hours before the house woke again.

Remus then raised his cup. “Enjoy the rest of your sleepless night, Black.” He stayed there a few minutes longer, just listening to the faint murmur of the sea, and thinking about how very irritating it was that other people had the audacity to be complicated.

2

The sun was out, the sea gentle, the air filled with the soft rustle of wind through seagrass. Towels were scattered on the sand like someone had tried to arrange them then given up. The others were dipping their feet in the water or sprawled out under a lazy charm of shade.

Sirius sat on a faded blanket, sunglasses perched too dramatically on his nose, watching the waves — and more specifically, watching Regulus.

His brother was standing a few meters away, arms crossed, shoulders tense, wearing his usual black shirt despite the heat. And honestly, Sirius had at least a hundred questions about that alone. How was he not melting? Was it a fashion statement? A trauma response? A personality flaw? He didn’t know if it was defiance or just dramatic flair, but it was infuriatingly on brand.

Still, the longer he looked, the less the clothing mattered.

Regulus looked like he’d slept inside a nightmare and then ironed the suit.

There was something off about him—beyond the usual detachment. His face was pale under the sun, his eyes ringed with exhaustion, his posture too still. Like if he moved too fast, something inside him might break or leak out. Sirius had seen a lot of people try to fake composure after the war. But Regulus didn’t even seem to be trying. He was just… holding.

And somehow, that was worse.

Sirius narrowed his eyes.

Regulus hadn’t said much at breakfast. Or lunch. Or at all, really.

He looked like shit. Which, of course, Sirius decided to address with grace and sensitivity. “Jesus, Reg. You look like shit.”

Regulus didn’t even turn. “How poetic.”

“Seriously, did someone possess your soul in the night or did you just remember who you’re related to?”

“If you’re trying to be helpful, I suggest another strategy.”

Sirius stood and walked over, kicking sand gently at his brother’s foot.
“No, I’m trying to be annoying. It’s tradition.”

Regulus finally turned, slowly, his face unreadable. “Thank you. Next.”

Sirius grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief, trying to cover his underline worry. “What happened? Did the couch try to murder you?”

“No, Sirius,” Regulus sighed, as if he were addressing a particularly slow toddler and lacked the patience for the conversation. Sirius couldn’t help but feel a bit like that toddler sometimes—small, messy, barely keeping up with his older brother. And now, he wondered quietly when exactly Regulus had grown so much. When he’d stopped being his little brother to protect. But he kept that thought locked away.
“The house is loud. The walls breathe. The shadows are too long. Would you prefer the full review, or just the highlights?”

Sirius stepped closer, his expression trying to be earnest, though a flicker of his usual sarcasm lingered in his eyes. “Look, if this place is keeping you up, I’m pretty good at staying awake all night listening. Want to talk? I’m no expert, but I’m here.”

Regulus opened his mouth, voice ready to snap. “Sirius, really you—”

But before he could finish, James called from the other side of the beach. “Oi, Sirius! You coming?”

Sirius glanced back, then turned to Regulus with a raised eyebrow. “You wanna come? We’re going for a swim.”

Regulus gave a tired, slow blink. “No, thanks. I'm good here.” James reached them and pressed his lips into a thin line, their previous conversation still hanging between them—fuck, he really should’ve kept his mouth shut around Potter. Now he probably wanted him to spill his heart out to his brother about his fear of water. And honestly—maybe he was right, even if Regulus would never say it out loud.

So Regulus and James exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible look. James’s eyes held something unsaid—a quiet understanding, 'I'll not tell him if you won't', and wasn't that so fucking cute? —while Sirius watched, puzzled by the silent exchange, a little pout on his lips.

Regulus rolled his eyes, his decision already taken, it was now or never. Or well- now or later. 'So go on Regulus, you can do it', he mentally wooed himself. He hated this, he absolutely hated this- appearing weak. “Fine. Alright- fucking hell, I’m afraid of the water. Happy now?”

Before anyone could react, a chorus of surprised murmurs rose around them.
“What do you mean, afraid?” Mary asked, brow furrowed. "We're at sea-"

“I know—since I’m a grown man,” Regulus replied dryly, “and I’ve already had this conversation. I can stay here and stay away from the water at the same time. Multitasking, you know? Can we move on?”

Sirius tilted his head, still confused. “Who exactly did you have that chat with?”

James smirked, folding his arms. “That would be me.”

Sirius blinked, caught off guard. “Wait—Regulus is afraid of water? And you kept that from me?”

Regulus shrugged. “Not exactly something I parade around.”

James laughed softly. “More like, ‘Don’t get involved unless you want a lecture.’”

Sirius glanced between them, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Alright, alright. Secret’s safe with me, or well us. But I’m still not convinced you’re not just making it up.”

Regulus shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Try me, Sirius and I'll hex you 'till morning. And now, please go- go and let me be in peace.”

Sirius shot Regulus a quick, almost apologetic smile. “Well, alright. But I'll come back Reggie!"

"Or not- hope a fucking shark eat you alive" Regulus muttered and Sirius didn't know if he was serious or not. He scrunched up his nose, muttering a "Always charming, Reg" and then he run towards James.

James pulled Sirius aside quietly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret.
“You really need to give Regulus some space, mate. He’s only been here a day, tops.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Space? Since when do you talk like a responsible adult?”

James chuckled softly, but his eyes were serious. “I’m serious. You’re the kind of guy who jumps in headfirst, full of fire and passion, wanting to fix everything right now. But Regulus… he’s different. He’s not wired like that.”

Sirius frowned slightly, folding his arms. “So what? We just stand around and wait for him to come around?”

James shook his head. “No, it’s not about waiting. It’s about letting him breathe. Let him adjust to this whole mess—having you back, having all this change.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You want to do all the big hugs, the smiles, the laughter—everything you think will make it better—” James glanced over his shoulder, as if nervous someone would overhear.
“But with Regulus? That usually just pushes him further away. You’ve gotta do the opposite.”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “You’re right. I get that Regulus is the opposite of me — where I reach for a hug, he pulls away. Where I’m loud and laughing, he’s quiet and guarded.” He glanced down, voice softer now.
“I know that. I always knew that. But damn, it’s hard.”
His eyes flicked back to James, a flicker of frustration mixed with something more vulnerable. “Now that he’s here — really here — it feels like… I want to fix it all at once. Like I’m supposed to make everything okay with one smile or one joke.” He gave a bitter laugh.“But he’s not that kind of guy. And I’m not sure how to be the guy he needs me to be. I'm going crazy here, Prongs.” Sirius let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “We’re so different… can you believe we’re even brothers?” He laughed, a bit incredulous. “Seriously. It’s almost funny.”

James smirked, crossing his arms. “Honestly? I’d absolutely believe it. Both of you have that… ethereal kind of beauty. Especially Regulus — with his dark, glossy hair that catches the light just right, and those sharp, almost sculpted features. Like he’s carved from marble or something and can we talk about his lips? The way he pouts? Merlin he-”

Sirius glanced sideways at James, raising an eyebrow. “Mate… he’s my brother.”

James shrugged with a knowing smile. “Well, you both look like you belong on a painting in some ancient gallery. Maybe that’s just how the Blacks do handsome.”

"A-alright prongs-" Sirius arched an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing at his lips. “So, let me ask— just- no purpose. Just a little chat between friends. Best friends. And it's just us here, okay?" James arched an eyebrow, not sure about this- "Are you interested in my brother? Like, would you actually go out with my brother? Romantically? With feeling involved?”

James threw his hands up, laughing. “Bro, me and your brother? Regulus? Him? The one and only? I mean—he’s beautiful, yeah—but we barely stand each other most of the time. And I stand everyone but him so it's a first, pads.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows, clearly amused. “You know—just for future reference—I’d be totally okay with you and Reg. I mean—together.”

James blinked. “Wait, what?”

Sirius shrugged, but there was a flicker of sincerity beneath the grin.
“I’m serious. I mean, if I had to hope for someone for my brother… I’d want it to be someone like you. Or—well—actually you. You’d be good for him.”

James stared at him, thrown by the sudden weight of the words.

Sirius went on, a little quieter now- “People think Regulus is cold, and sure—he’s a frosty bastard on most days—but that’s not the whole story. He cares. God, he cares so much it scares him. Maybe more than any of us ever could. And you—” he glanced sideways, “—you’d show him what it means to be loved. For real. You did it with me and you would do a good job with him too.”

There was a long pause. James didn’t answer immediately. Just stood there, arms crossed, gaze drifting back to the shoreline, where Regulus sat with his knees pulled close and his eyes on the horizon.

“I don’t know, Pads,” James said finally, voice low. “Never thought about it honestly. I don’t even think he’d ever let me close enough to try. And on top of that—he’s taken.”

Sirius blinked. “Taken? With who?”

James rolled his eyes. “Pandora, obviously.”

"What? Are you joking?" Sirius scoffed, “I don’t think they’ve ever even hugged or anything since they got here. I don’t buy it.”

James shook his head firmly “What are you talking about? She’s the closest person to him, and Regulus is so private with everything. If he had a girlfriend, he sure wouldn’t be flaunting her around.”

Sirius considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Fair enough. I guess if anyone could keep something that tight under wraps, it’d be Regulus. But Pandora? I don't think"” As Sirius and James were still chuckling, Remus appeared behind Sirius, hugging his waist and, with a friendly smile, interjected. “Look, I don’t think that’s the case.” He then kissed his boyfriend cheek, smiling on his skin.

Sirius turned, curious. “What don’t you think?”

Remus shrugged, calm but certain, caressing his bare skin. “I don’t think Regulus is actually dating Pandora. Precisely because he’s so private, when he finds someone he truly loves and cares about… well, he’d want them all to himself.” Sirius nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips. Remus went on, more serious now “He’d be possessive, insanely jealous, and above all, always with that person. It wouldn’t be just about company — it’d be a constant presence. So no, I don’t believe Regulus is really dating Pandora. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s not.”

Sirius scratched his head, thinking it over. How many secrets he had to find out about his brother?
Who's right- Remus or James? But if he thought about his family and their jealousy, maybe Remus was right. Sirius himself was one of the most possessive bitches alive, and Regulus was more like him than he cared to admit.

“Alright,” Remus said again, voice low but teasing, “are we done dissecting Regulus Black’s emotional depth for today?”

Sirius huffed a laugh. “Sorry, Moony. Just—needed to get it out, I guess.”

Remus nodded, then added, more gently, “He’s under the umbrella half-asleep, by the way. Looks like he hasn’t really slept in a month.” He nudged Sirius’s arm. “Let him breathe.”

James gave Remus a grateful look, but Remus had already turned his eyes on Sirius, a little more meaning behind his glance now.
“I was actually hoping to steal you for a bit,” he said, casually but not too casually. “You and me, yeah? Private walk. You owe me one from last summer, if I recall correctly.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, grin half-formed. “Just us?”

Remus smiled. “Unless you’ve got more brothers to discuss.”

James rolled his eyes and waved them both off. “Go. Regulus will survive ten minutes without your constant commentary.”

“Oh, I plan to keep him more than ten minutes, but thank you, James.” Remus winked as he said it, his tone light and teasing, and James faked a gag in response — dramatic as ever — but Sirius was already gone. Not physically. He was still there, sure, standing in the sand with that stupid smirk half-formed on his mouth. But mentally? He was about three paces ahead, lost in the idea of Remus’ hands on his hips, holding him down with that slow-burning heat of his. Kissing him like the sun could watch. Like time didn’t matter. Like they had all the world between their mouths and no one else around to interrupt.

He didn’t have time to waste — not now, not with Remus standing right in front of him, saying his name like it meant something.

Later. Later he’d think about Reg. Right now, it was Remus who was calling for his attention. And Sirius didn’t intend to miss it.

Sirius gave James a playful salute, then turned to follow Remus along the shore, feet dragging a little in the warm sand.

Behind them, the beach was quieting. Most of the group had wandered off into the water. Regulus remained alone under the umbrella, one arm draped over his face, lost somewhere between sleep and stubborn stillness.

3

Regulus was staring at the water like it owed him something. The waves rolled in steady and cold, endlessly drawing in and pushing out, as if mocking the relentless pace of his own thoughts. The salty breeze teased strands of his dark hair across his forehead, and the late afternoon sun warmed his skin just enough to remind him that he was still alive—still breathing—even if his mind refused to settle.

His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, more out of habit than comfort, and his jaw was clenched so firmly it felt like a lock on whatever peace he tried to hold on to. The sand beneath him was coarse, grounding, yet somehow distant, as if he were both present and somewhere far away at once.

For once, he didn’t want to think about anything: not the endless complications of people, not the ever-looming weight of expectations, and certainly not the precarious balance of pretending to be fine. Here, on this small patch of beach, the sound of the waves was the only thing speaking, and maybe—just maybe—Regulus could finally allow himself a moment’s rest.

His eyelids flickered shut, then opened again, struggling not to get lost in the heaviness of a tired body begging for sleep. The ocean didn’t care about his battles, his regrets, or the silence he kept locked inside. It just was. Constant. Patient. And for once, that was enough.

A soft shuffle in the sand broke the fragile stillness.
James walked over, barefoot and unbothered by the heat, and plopped down beside him with the kind of casual grace that screamed uninvited but somehow fitting.
“You look like you’re about to duel the ocean.”

Regulus didn’t glance at him, voice clipped. “I’m trying to nap here—thank you, but I’ll pass.”

James squinted toward the horizon, then back at Regulus, a smile tugging at his lips like he knew exactly what was coming.
“So… how’s life?”

Regulus turned his head just slightly, eyes sharp enough to cut glass, but his voice remained dry, almost tired.
“Potter, I’ve been in this house with you for two days. How do you think it’s going?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. I’ve only been insulted six times today. That’s basically affection in Black.”

“You missed one. I was thinking it, but I wanted to pace myself.”

James smirked, leaning back on his hands.
“You’re very considerate. It’s the trauma bonding, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s the heat stroke.”

A pause. The sea breeze picked up, ruffling James’s hair. Regulus’s stayed perfect, of course. Somehow.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, quieter now, “I’m glad you’re here. Even if you look like you want to hex half of us.”

Regulus didn’t respond right away. Then, without looking at him— “Half is generous.”

James smiled. “Progress.”

The pause that followed stretched a little longer.
Then James’s voice changed — softer, but steady. “But seriously… last night?”

Regulus stiffened. His spine straightened just enough to notice, eyes fixed on the horizon. “In what sense, ‘last night’?”

James turned to face him properly now, his expression losing its usual smirk.
“I mean… maybe someone can confirm that I'm an insomniac. Probably Remus-”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“But I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more skittish than you all night.”

Regulus’s jaw twitched. “Don’t—”

“I’m not stupid, Reg.” James didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t soften it either.
“And I’m not here to give you a lecture or say it’s all going to be okay. Because… what we went through? It doesn’t leave us ‘okay.’”

Regulus didn’t move, but his throat worked around something unsaid.

“And that’s fine,” James went on. “You don’t owe anyone healing on a schedule. Or answers. Or neat little narratives. But—” He hesitated. Just a second. Then, quiet and firm- “If you ever need someone to lean on… I’m here.”

Regulus blinked once. Slowly. The sea was loud now. Or maybe that was just the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. He turned his head, finally, just enough to look at James from the side. His expression flat — voice clipped, sharp.

“I don’t need anything. Least of all your shoulder, Potter.”

James didn’t flinch. He just nodded, gaze steady. “Of course.” A pause. “I figured you’d say that. Just… keep it in mind. For the future, maybe.”

He didn’t press further. He didn’t smirk. He just said it like a fact — like something he’d already decided, and didn’t need to be thanked for.

Regulus looked away quickly, back at the water, jaw tense.
And he hated — truly hated — how the words lingered.

Keep it in mind. For the future.

How could James be so—so steady? So relentlessly calm?
So casually selfless, like kindness cost him nothing?

They had spent years at each other’s throats — proud, petty, too loud or too cold. Even that morning, Regulus had half expected a hex with his tea. And now… now James was talking to him like they were on the same side of something.

It made no sense. People didn’t change like that. Not really.
And yet there he was: barefoot in the sand, sun in his hair, looking like he belonged in every place Regulus never did — and still sitting beside him anyway.

It was infuriating.

He clenched his jaw tighter, arms crossed like a shield.
Because that warmth — that ease — it wasn’t normal. Not to him.
Kindness always had strings. Love was always conditional.
And trust? That was just a weapon waiting to be turned back on you.

So what the hell was Potter playing at?

Regulus closed his eyes for a second, letting the sun soak through his skin like maybe it could burn the thoughts away.
He didn’t need this. He was fine. He’d always been fine.

He just wished — quietly, hatefully — that James would stop being so easy to sit beside.
That he’d stop making Regulus wonder what it would feel like to… trust it. Why did it make him feel like… maybe he wanted to believe it?

Just for a second.

Regulus turned his head, sharp.“I don’t understand how you can be so—”

James looked at him, brows raised. “So what, Reg?”

Regulus’s jaw clenched. His voice cracked just enough to notice.“So… easy.”

James blinked. “Easy?”

“Yeah.” Regulus’s tone was sharper now, more breath than sound.
“Easy to go. Easy to love. Easy to be around. Everyone just… they breathe easier around you. You open your mouth and people listen. They like you. And I—” He stopped. Then, lower- “I don’t understand how.”

James didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease.
He looked out at the waves, quiet for a moment.
“It comes with the package, I guess.”

“What package?”

“I had two great parents.” His voice was soft, no shame in it.
“They gave me all their love. All the time. I never had to ask for it, or earn it. It was just… there. Every day.”

Regulus stared.

And James, glancing at him again, added- “So I guess… I just grew up thinking love was something you gave. Not something you chased.”

Regulus swallowed hard. The words landed somewhere deep and hollow.
“What?” His voice was small now.“Why?”

James tilted his head. “Why what?”

“Why would you feel like you have to be this way? Why would you think it’s your job to make everyone feel comfortable?”
James drew in a slow breath, watching the tide inch closer to their feet.
He had that look on his face — the one he wore when he was trying to sound casual, but something in his chest was twisting too tightly.

“I mean… it’s not like I have any serious trauma,” he muttered. “Not like you. Or Sirius. Or Remus. I was lucky. I was—loved. Like, extra loved. And I guess I just…” He paused, frowning at the sand. “I feel like I have to give that back. Like I owe it to the world, somehow.”

Regulus turned his head slowly, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion darkening the skin under them. “That’s bullshit,” he said, flat and final.

James blinked, caught off guard. “Wow. Thanks. So glad we’re bonding.”

“I’m not joking,” Regulus snapped, voice cold. “You think because your parents loved you, you’re obligated to love everyone else back? That you owe kindness like it’s a debt to be paid?”

James shrugged, a little defensively. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s not a bad thing.”

Regulus shook his head, scoffing under his breath. “It’s not kindness if it’s a compulsion. That’s just guilt, dressed up as virtue.”

James frowned. “It’s not guilt.”

“Then what is it?” Regulus asked, voice quiet now, but cutting. “Why do you feel like you have to be good?”

James didn’t answer right away. The sound of the waves covered the pause between them, long and heavy. “I just… think people deserve to be treated the way I was,” he said finally. “Even if I’m the one giving it.”

Regulus was quiet. Not because he didn’t have something to say — he did — but because, for a moment, he didn’t know how to shape it.
“That’s… not sustainable, Potter,” he said at last. “People are messy. They’re cruel. Half of them won’t deserve it, and the other half will tear it apart like it’s weakness.”

James looked over at him, and Regulus didn’t look away.

“Yeah—alright—I know this,” James said, exhaling hard. “But I’m—” He stopped, pressing his palms into the sand. “I’ve been helped. That’s what I mean. I’ve been loved, supported, shielded. And I feel like—sometimes—I have to earn that. I have to pass it on, somehow.”

Regulus tilted his head, incredulous. “No, James. You don’t. You really don’t.”
His voice had sharpened again, but it wasn’t angry — it was firm. Unapologetic.
“My parents were homophobic shits, but my brother and I are both gay. So, what? We should be spreading hate just because we were raised with it?” He snorted. “If I follow your logic, we’re all just echo chambers of inherited trauma or generosity. That’s not choice. That’s programming.”

There was a long silence.

Then James blinked, processing. “No, I mean—wait. What?”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “What.”

“You’re—” James faltered, blinking fast. “You’re gay?”

Regulus stared at him, deadpan. “Yes, James. Shocking, I know.” Then, with a lazy smirk, “Didn’t have you down as the homophobic type.”

James nearly choked on his own spit. “What? No! No—Merlin, don’t say that—I’m not—bloody hell—”

Regulus laughed, low and warm. “Relax, Potter. I was joking. You’re best friends with my brother and his fucking boyfriend. I figured you had the range.”

“Right! Yes. Totally. I just—” James ran a hand through his hair, flustered. “I thought you were with Pandora.”

Regulus blinked once. “Potter.”

“What?”

“She’s a lesbian.”

James’s mouth opened. Closed. “Oh.”

Regulus turned his gaze back to the sea, unimpressed. “Incredible deductive work. No wonder you’re the chosen one.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re not very observant either.”

“I just assumed!”

“Well. That’s your first mistake.” James let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, then rubbed a hand over his face.

Regulus smirked, and for the first time since they’d started talking — since they’d known each other, really — he looked genuinely amused.
“Relax, Potter,” he said. “You’re not the first straight boy to be confused by me.”

James, half smiling, lowered his hand.
“Wait. Did you just imply I’m confused?”

“Did I?”

“…you did.” Regulus didn’t answer. But he didn’t deny it either.

And then Regulus laughed. Not a breathy huff, not one of those dry, reluctant exhales he usually gave — but a real laugh.
Sharp and startled, like it had snuck past his defenses. His head tilted back just slightly, eyes almost glowing with something close to warmth.

James stared at him like he’d just seen a unicorn tap-dancing on the beach.
“And you’re laughing,” he said, amazed. “Honestly not sure if I should be concerned or honoured.”

Regulus wiped the corner of his eye with the edge of his thumb. “Why does everyone assume Pandora and I are a couple?”

James lifted his hands helplessly. “I don’t know! You’re just… very tied? Like… weirdly in sync. And the way you talk to each other—and She touches your hair a lot?”

“She also hexed me last week for leaving toast crumbs on her favorite book,” Regulus said dryly. “She’s my best friend. We’ve been through hell together. That doesn’t automatically make us soulmates.” Regulus rolled his eyes.
“Men can have women as best friends, you know. It’s not a myth.”

“Yeah! No, obviously.” James rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish.
“It’s just… I don’t know. Weird, when you assume something and find out you were completely wrong. But thanks. For telling me. I know it’s not exactly easy.”

Regulus looked at him for a long second, then nodded once. “Thanks for not making it weird.”

“You’re welcome,” James said. Then added with a crooked smile, “Yet.”

Regulus went quiet for a moment, staring back out at the water.
Then, casually- “You know what you can do to thank me?”

James looked over. “What?”

Regulus turned his gaze to him, serious now — but not cold. Not sharp.

“Be yourself around me. Always.”
A beat. “You don’t have to like me because you feel obligated to. I actually prefer it if you hate me, if that’s what it comes to. Just—do what you really feel like. Don’t perform. Not with me.”

James blinked. That maybe… wasn’t what he expected. But it made a strange amount of sense. So he nodded, slowly.
“Alright,” he said. “Only if you do the same.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, darling. I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone but myself.”

“Exactly,” James muttered. “Terrifying.”

Regulus smirked. “You’ll live.”

4

The wind had picked up a little by the time Barty made his way down the narrow stone path that led to the sea. The sky was ink-blue, the last streaks of orange dissolving behind the hills, and the sand below shimmered with the soft reflection of stars.

Regulus had summoned him — or rather, requested his presence in that incredibly diplomatic, vaguely threatening tone he used when he needed company but refused to admit it. Something about a “proper check-in,” which in Regulus-speak translated roughly to: I’ve been quietly panicking for twelve to thirty-six hours and would now like to micromanage all of our emotional trauma in a controlled environment where I still get to be the one in charge.

It was sweet, in a soul-crushing sort of way.

Barty didn’t mind. He never did, not when it came to Regulus. If anything, he found it flattering. Out of everyone in that suffocating villa — with their loud voices, sunburnt joy, spontaneous singing, and emotionally healthy relationships — Regulus had wanted him. Or at least tolerated him enough to allow his presence while spiraling in peace.

There was something sacred about being chosen by a Black, especially when the choosing came wrapped in frosty silence and razor-edged vulnerability. It meant you were either trusted or deemed just deranged enough not to ruin things. With Regulus, those were the same thing.

Pandora and Evan were already down there, of course. Barty could hear the faint rise and fall of their voices carried on the breeze. Regulus would be sitting stiffly on the edge of some blanket, pretending not to be stressed.

He smirked at the thought.

And then he saw her.

Dorcas Meadowes was halfway down the path, barefoot in the sand, her hair loose and wind-tousled, arms crossed like she was trying not to look like she didn’t belong.
They both froze — just for a second — caught in that quiet tension that comes from too much time passed, and too little said.

“Hey,” he said first, lifting a hand in a casual gesture that sounded too casual in his voice. Like he was trying not to startle whatever fragile thing was between them.

“Hey,” she echoed, her voice soft. She gave a small nod, but didn’t step closer.

A pause followed. Not quite awkward — but weighted. Like the air between them remembered something they hadn’t said aloud.

“Didn’t expect to see you out here,” he offered, after a beat.

“I was just… walking,” she said, her eyes flicking toward the dark stretch of sea. “Needed air.”

“Same.” He nodded toward the beach.

“Where are you headed?” Dorcas asked, as they started walking side by side.

Barty kicked at the sand a little. “Reg called for us. Beach meeting. Something about ‘checking in.’ You know how he is.”

She raised an eyebrow, but there was a ghost of a smile there. “Should I come?”

Barty glanced at her, then shrugged. “You’re always welcome. You know that. He likes you.” A pause. “Not that he’d ever say it aloud.”

Dorcas chuckled softly. “Shocking.”

They walked in silence for a while, the ocean stretching out ahead of them, shimmering under the moonlight — steady, distant, almost indifferent. Each wave met the shore with a rhythm so calm it felt staged. Like the world itself was pretending to be peaceful.

Dorcas wrapped her arms tighter around herself as the breeze picked up, brushing strands of hair across her face. Beside her, Barty’s footsteps were loose in the sand, hoodie sleeves half-pulled over his hands like he was trying to disappear into them.

After a moment, she spoke again, quieter this time. “Are you worried about him?”
Barty shot her a quick glance. “I mean—you seem a bit worried.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just dug his hands deeper into the front pocket of his hoodie and rolled his shoulders back, like maybe the movement could keep the honesty from settling too heavily on his chest.

“No. Obviously not.”

Then a beat.

“…Not really.”

Another pause.

“…Yeah. Maybe a bit.”

She looked at him.

He shrugged, eyes on the sand. “Reg is… Reg. A piece of stone. Or steel. Or whatever poetic bullshit you want to slap on him. He’ll survive the apocalypse looking like he’s bored.” There was a half-smile on her lips, but she didn’t say anything. She just let him talk. “But yeah,” Barty went on, voice softer now, “sometimes I never know if he’s calling just to complain that Evan used his fancy shampoo again… or because he’s two seconds away from a full-blown collapse and doesn’t know how to say it out loud.” He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. “It’s like he’s made of armor, but the kind that gets heavier every day. And I don’t think he knows when to take it off.”

Dorcas was quiet for a moment, watching the dark horizon.

“Maybe he doesn’t know how.”

“Yeah,” Barty said, gaze distant. “That’s the bit that scares me.”

Dorcas gave him a look. “And after these days?”

He didn’t need to ask what she meant. The name. The announcement. The attention. All of it.

Barty hesitated.
“Yeah,” he said eventually. “He’s not good.”
They walked a bit more.
“He has nightmares,” he added, voice lower now. “Not the kind where you scream and wake up and need a glass of water. The kind where he stops breathing.”

Dorcas’s eyes widened.

Barty didn’t look at her.
“The first time it happened we thought he was just twitching or something. But then he… he went still.”
His voice cracked slightly. “He was blue. Lips, fingers, everything.”

Silence. Thick.

“I’ve never moved faster in my life. We didn’t even know what to do. Evan was sobbing. Pandora slapped him so hard she nearly dislocated her wrist just trying to wake him up.”

Dorcas swallowed.

“We took turns, after that,” Barty said. “Setting alarms. Staying awake. Sitting at the edge of the bed just to watch his chest rise. To count his breaths.”

They had almost reached the curve of the beach now, where the lanterns were lit and the group could be seen in the distance — little silhouettes against the waves.
“He’s gotten better,” Barty added, softer. “But… I still never sleep through the night. Just in case.” Dorcas didn’t speak. But when her hand brushed his, she didn’t pull away. And neither did he.

The sound of the waves grew louder as Barty and Dorcas reached the curve of the beach. Soft golden lanterns floated overhead, casting warm pools of light onto the sand. The scene ahead looked oddly peaceful — like a painting of a life none of them had ever quite believed they’d get to live.

Pandora sat cross-legged on a thick woven blanket, knitting furiously as if the wool owed her something. Her eyebrows were furrowed, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.

Evan was lounging beside her, half-draped over the blanket, half-propped up on one elbow, looking vaguely bored and unbothered by the world — which meant he was probably in a good mood.

Regulus was sprawled across Evan’s lap, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, wearing that expression of elegant disinterest that made him look like he’d been sculpted for the sole purpose of judging others.

Barty grinned at the sight. He stepped forward, leaned down, and planted a kiss on Evan’s head. “Guess who I found sulking up the path?”

That got their attention. Pandora looked up immediately, her entire face brightening. “Dorcas! Sweetheart, come here!”
Evan sat up a little, startled but clearly pleased. Even Regulus lifted his head, brows raised — mildly surprised, if not downright delighted in his own unreadable way.

Dorcas gave a small wave. “Hey. Missed you freaks.”

Regulus sat upright, dusting sand off his jumper with dramatic irritation.
“That’s exactly why I called this meeting,” he said, tone flat as glass. “Dorcas, how do you do it? How do you survive among them? I think I’m losing my mind.”

Pandora snorted. “You say that like it’s not a biweekly event.”

“Because it is,” Evan murmured, stretching his arms behind his head.

Dorcas laughed and dropped onto the blanket, slipping easily into the fold like she’d never left. “It’s nice to be back. You lot are terrifying, but… familiar. The Gryffindors are—particular.”

“We’re the good kind of terrifying,” Barty said, flopping down beside her with an exaggerated sigh. “Like fireworks. Or unmedicated Charms professors.”

Pandora snorted softly without looking up from her knitting. “You say that like we don’t all have trauma from Flitwick’s experimental lesson plans.”

Evan grinned. “Remember the time he tried to teach sentient quills? Mine stabbed me in the neck.”

“You deserved it,” Regulus muttered, still half-draped across Evan’s legs.

Barty nudged him with his foot.
“You’re just bitter yours wrote insults in Latin.”

“Fluently,” Regulus replied, without missing a beat. Then, with a touch more dryness-
“And elegantly. Unlike you.” He let the silence hang, then added,
“Mais bon… on ne peut pas tous être raffinés.”

Dorcas grinned. “Still got the attitude, I see.”

Regulus tilted his head, examining her lazily. “And you still sound vaguely disappointed when you say that, mon amie.”

“Nah.”She stretched her legs out. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
That earned her the smallest smile from him — not quite visible, but there in the eyes.

Pandora glanced up at them all, her expression soft.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? All of us. Same blanket. No Death Eaters. No war.”

Barty smiled, watching the way Regulus had practically melted into Evan’s lap — one arm draped over his stomach, eyes half-closed, like he hadn’t just summoned them all to a “serious group check-in.” He took a seat on the blanket, stretching his legs out and leaning back on his palms.
“Can I have my boyfriend back, or are you planning on napping there permanently?”

Regulus didn’t even look up. “We’re just comfortable. Don’t be dramatic.”

Evan raised an eyebrow, amused. “You did sort of steal my legs, though.”

“Collateral affection,” Regulus muttered.

Barty shook his head, smiling as he watched Regulus get even more comfortable in Evan’s lap. “You’re lucky I like you. Anyone else and I’d be jealous. You know about that threesome—”

That made Regulus crack one eye open, amused.
“Always open to it. Just give me a time and an hour.”
His voice was smooth, teasing, dangerous in the way only Regulus could be.

Barty leaned in a little. “Shh—don’t say that in front of so many people, honey.”
He grinned, not at all whispering.

Dorcas, sitting cross-legged beside Pandora, raised an eyebrow.
“So… are you three always like this? I mean—who’s actually dating who?”

Pandora finally looked up from her knitting, calm as ever.
“Define ‘like this.’” Then she turned to Barty with a look that was half amusement, half warning. “The fact that she doesn’t immediately know who’s in a relationship here? That’s a you problem.”

Barty gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m a victim of my own charisma.”

“You’re a victim of bad boundaries,” Regulus murmured.

“And you love it.”

Evan, who’d stayed mostly quiet up to that point, finally spoke, his voice perfectly calm and dry. “I would just like to state, for the record, that I am the boyfriend. Just one. Singular. No Regulus — we’re not open. Like, no. Not. Bartemius is just mine- alright?”

Regulus looked up at him, eyes narrowed in theatrical offense.
“You wound me.”

"Oh-oh you called me Bartemius-" Barty leaned in with a smirk. “Jealous much, honey? You know you’re the only one in my heart.” Evan didn’t flinch. Just slid out from under Regulus with slow precision and settled neatly into Barty’s lap instead, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Happy now?" Barty said with a smug grin.

“Not yet,” Evan said, deadpan.

Regulus scoffed loudly and rolled his eyes, adjusting his sleeves with the precision of someone deeply inconvenienced by the existence of joy.
Then, without a word, he dropped his head onto Pandora’s lap with theatrical resignation.
She smiled — fond, unbothered — and began stroking his curls with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before.

But Barty barely noticed.
He was too focused on the boy now straddling his legs, looking at him with that half-smirk and fluttering lashes — the picture of smug satisfaction. Evan didn’t say a word—he just stalked forward, eyes burning with something between fury and want. Barty opened his mouth, maybe to throw another sharp comment, maybe to laugh, but he didn’t get the chance. Evan grabbed him by the front of his shirt, yanking him forward with enough force to make him stumble. For a split second, their faces were inches apart, breath mingling, the air between them charged and crackling.

Then Evan kissed him—hard, like he was angry about it, like he hated how much he wanted it. Teeth clashed, lips bruised, and Barty let out a stunned sound, his hands gripping Evan’s arms as if trying to ground himself. There was nothing gentle about it, but beneath the aggression was something unmistakably real—raw, reckless need tangled up with something dangerously close to affection.

Evan wasn’t fond of public displays but this- this turned Barty on like few things did.
When they finally pulled apart, just a breath between them, Evan whispered- “Now I am.”

Pandora rolled her eyes and went back to knitting. “This is why we can’t have normal dinners. Slut. Both of you.”

“I'd say you're like a romantic comedy with one brain cell between you.” Dorcas said, smiling as she settled in.

Evan smirked. “Sounds about right.”

Regulus, finally lifting his head off now, Pandora's lap, ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I take offense to that. I have at least two brain cells. One of them is in therapy.”

Dorcas laughed. “It’s actually nice. I missed this.”

Regulus gave her a sideways look.
“This? You missed this circus?”

She nodded, warm but honest.
“Yeah. Even you, Reg. A little.”

Regulus arched a brow, clearly suspicious.
“Dangerous thing to admit.”

“I like to live on the edge.” And just like that, the air around them softened. The banter stayed light, but something had settled underneath — something close to safe.

There was a lull in the conversation, the kind that stretched just a little too long. The wind picked up again, brushing past them in a gentle, cool gust.

Dorcas hesitated, then glanced sideways at Regulus, her tone quiet but genuine. “Reg—can I ask you something?”

He didn’t move, but one dark brow arched slightly.

“Why do you always wear long sleeves?” She held her voice steady, soft like the breeze that stirred her hair. Not accusatory. Not even curious, really — just… open. A space, if he wanted to fill it.

Regulus didn’t answer. But he stiffened — the way his spine straightened almost imperceptibly, the way his jaw locked — just for a breath. Just long enough. It was the kind of shift you only noticed if you were looking for it.

Barty noticed. Of course he did.
He remembered the first time he’d seen them — not by accident, because Regulus didn’t allow accidents. He’d shown them. Deliberately. Quietly. The sleeves rolled up with a sort of surgical precision, like he was revealing a map of something no one else was allowed to chart. The burns. The old cuts. The sigils seared into skin that had once been flawless and proud. The hands of the Inferi on his skin. His almost death. His legacy. Something that he would always carry on his skin. Forever.

And Barty had touched them, just once, fingers grazing over the raised lines like he could memorize them with enough care. He had said — quietly, because everything about that moment had felt like it would shatter if he wasn’t careful — that they were signs of survival. Not shame. That this, this, was resistance. That being alive with them mattered more than any version of him without them.

But maybe it wasn’t about the scars. Not really. Maybe it had never been about hiding the surface. Maybe it was about the memory. The before. The after. The silence in between. The moments that no one else had seen, where flesh met fire and choice met fear and everything burned down — including him.

Barty didn’t say any of that now. He just took a breath, as if to fill the space with something gentler.

But Regulus spoke first. “They keep the warmth in,” he said flatly, eyes on the horizon. “That’s all. You know- I get cold easily.” He even managed a smile at the end of it. Tight. Measured. Practiced.

But Dorcas wasn’t stupid. No one here was.“Reg… you’re soaked.”

Regulus looked down. His sleeves, indeed, were damp. The cold from the breeze had settled into the fabric, clinging to him.
He didn’t flinch. Just lifted his eyes again, face expressionless.
“Yeah. Well.” A pause. “Some things are harder to take off than others.”

And maybe that was all he could say. Or all he could allow himself to say. For now.
And maybe, for tonight, that would have to be enough.
He’s gotten better, Barty thought. It was a process, and Regulus was healing like all of them—slowly, painfully, but undeniably moving forward.

The ocean whispered beside them, steady and patient, like a quiet witness to their unspoken struggles.

Barty gave a small nod, not pushing any further. Sometimes, silence was the best way to hold someone up.
Regulus finally pulled his sleeves just a little lower, as if settling into the invisible armor they gave him.

And for now, that was enough.

“Can I ask you something now?” Regulus said then, his voice low, as if weighing whether the question was worth saying out loud.

Dorcas turned her head slightly, one eyebrow raised, the wind pulling strands of hair across her face. “Sure.”

Regulus wasn’t quite looking at her — more at the horizon, somewhere just to the left of where the moon hung low over the sea. “How did it happen?” he asked. “You and Marlene. You, giving in to Gryffindors like that.”

Dorcas huffed a quiet laugh, not annoyed — more like she’d been expecting it. “I knew you’d get there eventually.”

“Well, it’s a valid question,” Barty said evenly, grinning, happy to change subject “considering that you used to swear loyalty to Slytherin sarcasm and an eternal hatred for noise.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, then looked away again, brushing a thumb over her bottom lip. “They have this… thing. Gryffindors, I mean. Not just Marlene. All of them. Like they’ve made a pact with the sun — too loud, too warm, too golden for their own good.”

“That sounds unbearable.”

“Oh, it is,” she said, smiling. “It’s also—contagious. They make you feel like the world is burning and it’s a good thing. Like you can survive it if you’re laughing loud enough.”

Regulus blinked, then narrowed his eyes slightly. “So you caught fire and decided to stay?”

Dorcas shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I just got tired of pretending cold was the only way to feel powerful.”

That gave them pause — just a second. And Dorcas, catching the shift, added gently, “They’re infuriating. But they know how to make you feel real. And seen. Even when you don’t want to be.”

They were quiet for a moment, the words settling somewhere between defensiveness and reluctant understanding. Then, dryly, Pandora said- “So you’re saying you fell in love with a walking fire hazard.”

Dorcas grinned. “Exactly.”