Nat🫶

I wasn’t sure when it began. Maybe it had already been happening—some quiet, unnoticed thing—on a Hogsmeade weekend, or in the blur of passing shoulders in the corridor. We’d never really spoken before, not properly. Regulus Black existed on the edges of my world, Sirius’ shadow, younger and quieter and altogether unreadable.

But I knew exactly when it started.

It started over the summer, when I invited Pete, Remus, and Sirius to stay. That was when it happened. Sirius arrived with him in tow, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly there he was—real, undeniable. Softer features than his brother’s, but still sharp lines smoothed just enough to be dangerous. Dark curls that never seemed to sit quite right. Eyes the colour of heather under cloud cover—blue, but muted, distant, colder than Sirius’ ever were.

He was shorter than Sirius, but it suited him. Made him seem deliberate. Self-possessed.

I knew I was in trouble the moment those eyes locked onto mine. The moment the corner of his mouth lifted—just slightly. Not quite a smirk, but not not a smirk either. Like he was perpetually amused by something only he understood.

The days bled into one another after that, long and hot and languid, spent by the pond. Sun-dazed afternoons where time seemed to stretch thin. Shirtless bodies, salt-slicked skin, the air heavy with heat and cicadas. Regulus lay among us as though he belonged there, as though he always had.

“Won’t you swim?” I asked him one afternoon, softer than I meant to be.

He was sprawled across a chaise lounge, sunglasses perched on his nose—the sort you’d see on police in Muggle films. Shirtless. Blue swim trunks clinging to him like they had no right to. Like they were aware of what they were touching.

“I can’t swim,” he drawled, voice lilting with an accent that couldn’t quite decide if it was French or perfectly clipped RP.

“Could teach you,” I said, sitting beside him before I’d thought better of it.

He tilted his head just enough to look at me over the rim of his glasses. “If you’re anything like my brother,” he said lightly, “you may drown me.”

That little smirk again. Subtle. Self-satisfied. Entirely unfair.

My heart gave a traitorous thump.

Gods, he was beautiful. It felt obscene, almost like the gods themselves had carved him with intention, with care, and dropped him into my path just to see what would happen. And if I could be so vain, it felt like he had been made for me.

“I won’t,” I told him. “I’m quite trustworthy.”

He hummed softly, unconvinced, and reached for his glass of lemonade. The bubbles rose lazily to the surface, catching the light as he tilted it, watching them rather than me. It felt deliberate—like he knew exactly what he was doing by not looking.

“And how,” he asked at last, cool and measured, “could I possibly believe you?”

“You’ll never know unless you try,” I said, keeping my voice light. Testing the waters, no pun intended. Or perhaps very much intended. I was trying to see if what I felt, this pull, this sudden gravity, existed anywhere beyond my own chest.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he studied me. Properly this time. His gaze was slow, appraising, as though he were weighing something far more dangerous than a swim. The noise from the pond—Sirius’ laughter, Peter’s splashing, Remus calling out—faded until it was little more than a blur, like we’d been sealed off in our own pocket of the afternoon.

For a moment—an eternity—he said nothing.

Then Regulus exhaled, a quiet sound through his nose, and set the glass down on the small table beside the chair.

“If you drop me,” he said mildly, “I will haunt you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched again.

Not quite a smile.

The wooden slats of the dock groaned underfoot, a familiar rhythm that led us back toward the yard. I guided Regulus down to the small stretch of shore—a patch of silver sand my father had cleared from the choking reeds years ago. The air smelled of salt and damp earth.

​I waded in backward, the cool water creeping up my calves, then my thighs. I kept my eyes locked on Regulus. He lingered at the edge, the water lapping at his ankles like a hesitant caress. There was a flicker of something guarded in his expression, a slight tension in his jaw, but he followed. He waded in until the water reached his waist, his now dark shorts billowing around him like ink in a glass.

​"Alright, now what?" He watched the ripples breaking against his chest, his voice steady but thin. He was willing, yet poised as if ready to bolt.

​I reached out, my palm upturned. "Take my hand."

​The opening bars of an Elvis Presley ballad drifted through my mind. I bit back the urge to hum it; Regulus likely wouldn't appreciate the sentimentality, and he certainly wouldn't understand my fascination with the "other blokes" like George Weiss who actually penned the lyrics. To Regulus, American rock stars were a world away—lowbrow, perhaps. I didn't want to break the spell of the quiet with a joke that might fall flat.

​His fingers, cool and slender, slid into mine. As we moved deeper, the shelf of the sand began to drop away. I felt the change in him immediately—his grip tightened, and his breathing grew shallow, hitching in the back of his throat. I wondered if the water held a memory for him, something dark from a past life or a childhood fear. I wouldn't pry; some ghosts were meant to stay submerged.

​"Do you trust me?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave.

​"Do I have a choice?" That ghost of a smile returned—the one that never quite reached his eyes but managed to tug at my heart all the same.

​"You always have a choice," I told him, letting the sincerity weigh my words.

​A faint, blooming blush crept across his porcelain cheeks, a splash of color. He didn't answer with words. Instead, he closed the distance between us, his chest brushing mine. The proximity was electric. I wrapped an arm around his back, anchoring him as we moved into the depths where the ground vanished beneath his toes.

​I felt the sudden, sharp tremor of panic vibrate through his small frame. He was buoyant now, held up only by the strength of my arm and his grip on my hand.

​"Relax," I whispered, the word a breath against his temple. "I’ve got you."

​Slowly, I guided him backward, laying him out upon the surface of the water. As he drifted, the sun caught the droplets clinging to his skin. They looked like fallen stars, forming liquid constellations across the pale planes of his stomach. He looked like a moonflower—silky, white, and blooming only in the shadows. He was a mystery I wanted to solve, a beauty that seemed to emerge solely from the darkness.

​The ache in my chest shifted lower. I stared at his long, elegant fingers still clutching mine. I imagined those fingers tracing the line of my jaw, wandering down my arms, and dragging slowly over my ribs. I wanted to feel them pressed against my stomach, moving lower still toward the heavy heat in my groin. I wanted to memorize the map of his palms with my lips, tracing every line and crease until his patterns were etched into my own skin.

​“This doesn’t seem like how you learn to swim,” Regulus said, eyes sliding shut as he allowed the sun to soak into him, his body resting in my arms where I held him just beneath the surface.

“You need to learn how to float before you can swim,” I whispered, my voice low, careful not to startle him.

“Why’s that?” he asked, head tipping slightly toward me, trusting without quite realizing it.

“It helps you stay in control,” I said. “To stay calm. If you’re ever in a situation where you need to save yourself, floating is your best, and safest, option.”

He was quiet, listening.

“But,” I continued, softer now, “if you’d like a more poetic reasoning… 'as you float now, where I held you and let go—remember, when fear cramps your heart, what I told you.'” I hesitated only a moment before finishing, “'Lie gently and wide to the light-year stars. Lie back, and the sea will hold you.'”

I slowly loosened my grip, letting my hands slip away while staying close, close enough that he could reach for me at any moment. I didn’t stray far. I never would.

The water cradled him. He floated, tentative at first, then steadier, his breathing evening out as he realized he wasn’t sinking.

“You know poetry,” he said at last, sounding mildly surprised, almost nonplussed.

“I’m not all Gryffindor bravado and idiocy,” I smirked, watching him from just beside the curve of his shoulder.

One corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile.

And for a moment, he stayed there, floating, trusting the water… and me.

—

I watched as Remus and Sirius shared a sausage, laughter passing easily between them, soft and unguarded. Sirius tore a piece free with his teeth and nudged it toward Remus, who rolled his eyes and took it anyway, their shoulders brushing, their knees pressed together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

How nice it must be—to be that comfortable with someone. To be so relaxed, so open, even when the world around them did everything it could to punish people like them for existing.

Peter shifted uncomfortably every time Sirius brushed Remus’ hand, every time there was a quick, careless kiss to a cheek or temple. He always looked away too fast, stared too hard into the fire. But what was he going to do? They were his friends. He wasn’t going to run off to the authorities. Still—there were laws. Homosexual acts were only legal if you were over twenty-one, and only in England and Wales. As if love could be divided neatly by borders and birthdays.

A world that made loving someone illegal... How bizarre. How cruel.

And yet—how wonderful it must be to love someone so deeply you’d risk everything just to hold their hand in public. To laugh freely. To choose honesty over safety. To be open. To be known. To be free.

If only I could have something like that. Something pure. Something certain. Something like theirs...

“Campfire bread is done.”

Regulus’ voice cut gently through my thoughts. I hadn’t even noticed him shift closer. He stood beside me now, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him against the chill of night air. He held out a stick, the dough wrapped neatly around the end, browned and blistered in places, steam curling faintly from its surface.

I took it from him, our fingers brushing—brief, accidental, electric. He didn’t comment on it. Didn’t smirk or tease. He just watched the fire, expression unreadable, lips set in that familiar not-quite-smile.

“Thanks,” I said quietly.

He inclined his head, as if it were nothing at all, then settled beside me, shoulder just barely touching mine. The fire crackled. Somewhere near us, Sirius laughed again—bright and fearless.

I stared at the bread in my hands, suddenly aware of how fast my heart was beating, and wondered what it would be like to risk everything for a love of my own.

It was quiet now as we sat in the grass, damp with dew that soaked through my trousers if I shifted too much. The fire had burned low, reduced to a steady crackle and the occasional pop, sparks lifting briefly before dying into the dark. Crickets chirped somewhere beyond the trees. My breath fogged faintly in the cold night air.

“Do you miss France?” I asked softly.

Regulus glanced at me, the firelight catching in his eyes, turning them molten for a moment before they cooled again.

“I do,” he said. “I go every summer.”

“Not this one,” I replied, as if that weren’t already painfully obvious.

“Not this one,” he echoed, his voice calm, resigned.

I picked at a blade of grass, searching for something—anything—to keep him talking. I liked the way he spoke, that detached, almost languid tone, like life mildly inconvenienced him.

“What part of France are you from?” I asked. “You never actually said.”

“Haute-Savoie,” he answered smoothly, the name rolling off his tongue like it belonged there.

I nodded, pretending I knew exactly where that was. I absolutely did not. He caught it instantly.

“It’s a region in the Alps,” he supplied, one corner of his mouth lifting—not quite a smile, but close enough to unsettle me.

“Mountains, then,” I said. “Quiet.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Very quiet. Lakes, forests. Snow that doesn’t melt until it’s good and ready.” He stared into the fire as he spoke, like he could see it. “My family has an estate near Annecy. You can hear nothing at night but the wind and the water.”

“That sounds…” I trailed off, searching for the right word. Lonely, maybe. Beautiful, definitely.

“Peaceful,” I settled on.

He hummed in agreement. “It is. Too peaceful, sometimes.”

I looked at him then, really looked. The sharp planes of his face softened by firelight, dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He seemed so composed, so untouchable—and yet there was something fragile beneath it, like glass cooled too quickly.

“You could take me there sometime,” I said lightly, half-joking. “Teach me how to pronounce it properly.”

His gaze flicked back to me, assessing, unreadable.

“Perhaps,” he said after a beat. “If you behave.”

My heart gave an embarrassing little thump. I leaned back on my hands, staring up at the stars, hoping the darkness hid the stupid grin I couldn’t quite suppress.

“And you?”

He asked it like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to. The question settled between us, gentle and unassuming.

“We’re from Stinchcombe originally,” I said. “At least on my dad's side. My mum's family is from Sri Lanka, though.”

I didn’t say the rest out loud—that I grew up in a kitchen heavy with spice and steam, watching her hands move with quiet certainty, learning recipes by feel rather than measure. That I could already picture Regulus there, sleeves rolled, listening more than he spoke, letting me show him how to cook something warm and familiar. Someday, maybe.

“That explains your complexion,” he said softly.

The words weren’t clinical. Not with the way he looked at me, eyes lingering like he was committing me to memory.

The hairs on my arms lifted when his fingers brushed my forearm, light and unassuming, as though he hadn’t fully decided to touch me until he already had. My breath caught anyway. I didn’t pull away.

“My mum always said the sun follows us,” I added quietly. “Even when it doesn’t feel like it.”

His fingers lingered for just a second longer before retreating.

“I think it suits you,” he said, voice low, nearly swallowed by the fire’s crackle.

I met his gaze, my chest tight in a way that felt both frightening and inevitable.

“Yeah?” I asked.

That almost-smile appeared again, the one that never quite gave itself away.

“Very much so.”

And there they were... those peach-soft lips, parted just enough to be dangerous. Kissable in a way that felt almost unfair. I imagined, unbidden, what they might taste like: salt and smoke from the campfire bread, the faint citrus of the lemonade he’d sipped earlier, maybe even the bitterness of the coffee he drank every morning with my mother at the kitchen table, far too early for anyone sensible to be awake.

The thought settled low in my chest, warm and aching.

I let myself look for one heartbeat too long. The firelight caught on the curve of his mouth, the quiet rise and fall of his breath. He wasn’t looking at me—not directly—but there was an awareness there all the same, something taut and unspoken stretching between us.

I swallowed.

This was how mistakes started. Beautiful, irreversible ones.

“We should head to bed,” I said instead, turning my gaze toward the dying fire before he could read too much in my eyes.

The embers glowed faintly, red fading to ash, the night pressing closer around us. I could feel him beside me still, the warmth of his presence lingering even as the moment slipped quietly, deliberately, out of reach.

—

“Morning.”

I strode into the kitchen, the floorboards cool beneath my feet. Mum was already at the counter, pouring Regulus what appeared to be a second—no, likely a third—cup of coffee. He accepted it without comment, fingers curling neatly around the mug as if it were an extension of him.

“Sleep well, dear?” Mum asked, kissing my cheek as she passed.

“Could’ve slept longer,” I said, reaching for the juice and pouring myself a glass. I took a sip, watching Regulus over the rim, pretending not to.

He looked annoyingly at ease. Hair still slightly mussed, posture loose but precise, eyes half-lidded in that way that suggested he was awake long before the rest of us, even if he pretended otherwise.

“What’s for breakfast?”

Sirius wandered in then, arms stretched high above his head as he yawned. His sweats hung low on his hips, his shirt riding up just enough to expose that thin trail of dark hair disappearing from his navel. Effortlessly attractive. Infuriatingly so.

Sirius was beautiful—more than me, more than most people I’d ever known. Hogwarts’ pretty boy. A literal billionaire. And yet, despite it all, his attention never wavered. His eyes were only ever for Remus. For the quiet boy with scars and secrets sharp enough to ruin him if the wrong person ever learned the truth.

I admired that about Sirius. His devotion. His certainty.

Regulus caught me looking.

Not at him—but at Sirius.

His gaze flicked from his brother back to me, sharp and knowing. Something unreadable passed across his face, gone as quickly as it came.

But I did not desire Sirius.

I found him attractive, yes—anyone with eyes could—but my wants did not live there. They sat firmly at the table, behind eyes the colour of slate. In long, elegant fingers wrapped around warm porcelain. In apricot lips that never quite smiled unless he meant them to.

I wanted him.

I wanted to know the weight of Regulus’ head against my shoulder, the scent of him clinging to my jumper. I wanted to bury my nose in his hair and learn what Regulus smelled like—not coffee or soap, but something uniquely his.

My Regulus.

The thought startled me with its certainty. I took another drink of juice, grounding myself, and looked away before anyone—before he—could read too much in my face.

Breakfast carried on around us, ordinary and domestic. But beneath it all, something fragile and electric lingered, unspoken, waiting.

“What do you do for fun around here?” Regulus asked as we walked down the sidewalk, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. Ahead of us, Sirius and Remus walked shoulder to shoulder, Peter trailing just behind them, half-listening, half-lost in his own thoughts.

“Swim. Chess. Quidditch,” I said easily, nudging Regulus with my shoulder. “We could play Quidditch later.”

He glanced at me, expression unreadable. “Next time,” he said. Not cold. Not warm either. Just… careful.

I nodded, pretending it didn’t sting more than it should.

“There’s a theatre,” I went on, searching for something—anything—that might interest him. “But it’s less cinema and more indie films. Old foreign things. The occasional musical.”

As I spoke, my hand drifted just close enough that my fingers brushed his arm.

It was accidental. Entirely. Probably.

Regulus didn’t pull away.

The contact was brief—barely a second—but it sent a quiet thrill up my arm, something electric and restrained. I didn’t look at him right away, afraid I’d give myself away. When I finally did, his gaze was forward, lips pressed together in thought, as though he hadn’t noticed at all.

But I suspected he had.

I watched as Sirius leapt up onto Remus’ back, his arms slung easily around Remus’ neck. Remus staggered, laughing, nearly dropping them both to the pavement. Their voices carried—bright, unguarded, effortless in a way that made something twist low in my chest.

“Do you fancy him?”

I startled and turned, Regulus’ question catching me clean off guard. He was looking at me now, properly, dark eyes sharp with curiosity. He’d seen me watching his brother. Again.

“Oh. No—I…” I faltered, then shook my head too quickly. “He’s my friend. They both are.” I shoved my hands into my pockets and looked away, heat creeping up the back of my neck.

Regulus didn’t let it drop.

“Then why do you stare?” he asked, not accusing, just genuinely curious. After a beat, he added, “Do you not approve?”

“What? Oh—Merlin, no. Of course I approve.” I laughed, a little breathless, gesturing vaguely ahead at the pair. “I pushed for that.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Regulus said quietly. “Then why?”

I exhaled, long and slow, my thoughts tangling over one another.

Because I want what they have.

Because I want to feel chosen.

Because I want to be loved openly, shamelessly.

Because I want to be free.

Because I want to be held—kissed—known.

Because I want that.

With you.

But I couldn’t say any of that. Not without shattering something fragile between us. Not without risking the careful distance Regulus seemed so intent on keeping.

“Just admiring them,” I said instead, the lie thin but serviceable.

Regulus studied me for a moment longer, as though weighing the truth of it. Then he nodded once and quickened his pace, moving ahead to fall into step beside Peter.

He didn’t look back.

I watched the space he left behind, hollow and cold, and swallowed hard.

Dammit.

—

“Split some pizza, or should we each get our own meals?” Sirius asked, peering over the top of his menu.

“We could split and get a few starters,” Peter said, tapping the page with his index finger. “They’ve got something called fried mozzarella.”

Sirius’ eyes lit up. “See? That’s already a yes.”

“I’d like a salad,” Regulus said, flipping his menu shut with lazy finality. “Caprese.”

“Of course you would,” Sirius muttered, rolling his eyes fondly.

“He can get a salad,” I said before I quite realised I was speaking. “You can even get one to take home for later, if you want.”

It was obvious—too obvious—my not-so-subtle way of remembering things about Regulus. That he preferred vegetables to meat. That he ate lightly. That he liked feeling in control of what went into his body.

Regulus looked at me then, properly, and I saw his ears colour, the faintest bloom of pink creeping up beneath his dark hair.

“Just one for here is fine,” he said quietly, the edge of his voice softened.

Sirius glanced between us, brow quirking, but said nothing. I ducked my gaze back to the menu, pretending to read, while my heart thudded far too loudly for such a small moment.

“Last year of school,” Peter said around a bite of pizza.

He held the slice in both hands, folding it neatly in half the way he’d picked up after spending a summer in New York. Sirius had tried it once, years ago, when Peter first showed him—only to decide it was far too messy. Even for him.

I found myself wondering what Regulus thought of Peter’s fondness for American habits. The pizza. The slang that crept in now and again. Or what he’d think if he saw the stack of American vinyls tucked beside my record player back home. Would he think it strange? Excessive?

What would he think of my bed?

Would he find comfort there, tangled in unfamiliar sheets? Would he laugh at the childhood stuffed animals still propped near my pillows? Or would he find it… endearing?

I’d never know.

“Got plans?” Remus asked Peter.

“Might bunk off to America,” Peter said cheerfully, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“America?” Regulus echoed, slicing cleanly through a tomato. “There are much nicer places to visit. You don’t plan to continue your education? Seek a job?”

“Got your whole life planned out, have you, Reggie?” Sirius grinned.

“And you don’t, I’m sure,” Regulus shot back, rolling his eyes.

“Oi, I don’t need to work,” Sirius said easily. “I’ll just… head back to France with Moony and we’ll live our lives out there together.” He shrugged, careless, certain.

Regulus huffed softly, unimpressed.

Then his attention turned to me.

“James,” he said. “What are your plans?”

I nearly dropped my fork.

Why was he asking me? I couldn’t have mattered that much—could I?

“I’ve been considering furthering my education,” I said, suddenly aware of how my voice sounded. “Or possibly going pro. But Dad wants me to take up a Ministry job.”

“Quidditch sounds far more entertaining than desk work,” Regulus said, that not-quite smile appearing again.

It did something to my chest.

“What about you?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

“Reggie wants to be an artist,” Sirius cut in, clearly delighted with himself.

“Shut up,” Regulus snapped, sharp and immediate.

“An artist?” I asked, genuinely intrigued.

“I’m interested in historical art restoration and research,” Regulus said after a beat. “Not very exciting.”

“No,” I said softly. “But if it’s something you’re interested in… that bit doesn’t matter, does it?”

He watched me then. Really watched me.

“I suppose not,” Regulus said.

And that was when I saw it—the smile in his eyes. The one that never quite reached his lips, but lingered all the same.

There.

For me.

“He draws too. Sketches,” Sirius pushed, because of course he did. He loved to needle his brother—loved him fiercely, too, even if that affection was buried beneath teasing and provocation. I could see it plain as day.

“Siri—” Regulus started, warning threaded through his voice.

“I’d like to see them,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “Sometime. If you’d like to show me, that is.”

What was I thinking?

Drawings were private things. Intimate. Like opening a diary or pressing your thumb against someone’s pulse just to see if it fluttered.

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He watched me instead, eyes steady, unreadable. Then he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not agreement exactly—but not refusal either.

Unspeaking.

Remus leaned toward Sirius and murmured something low enough that I couldn’t hear. Sirius’ mouth opened, already primed to continue the torment, but Remus’ hand found his wrist and stilled him.

I knew what that look meant.

I’d done it to them once—stepped in gently, redirected, protected something fragile before it shattered under too much attention. But this wouldn’t work. Not here. Not on me.

I wasn’t meant for this.

I wasn’t meant to be in a queer relationship. Wasn’t meant to love, or touch, something as bewitching as Regulus Black. He was art and history and restraint, all sharp lines and quiet intensity.

And I was meant to admire from a distance.

Even knowing how badly it ached not to.

We left the restaurant, bellies full and bodies loose with comfort.

As we walked farther into town, the sky seemed to split open without warning. Rain began to fall in light, uneven pitter-patters against the pavement, darkening the stone in scattered splotches.

“Shit,” I muttered.

We scattered instinctively, ducking toward the nearest row of shops. A bookshop became our refuge, the bell above the door tinkling softly as we crowded inside, laughter and damp shirts trailing in with us. The rain drummed harder against the windows, entirely unapologetic—so very true to England’s habits.

I pulled my glasses from my face, blinking as moisture blurred everything. I tried to wipe them on my shirt, but the fabric was already damp, and all I managed to do was smear the lenses further.

“Here—let me,” Regulus said.

He took the glasses gently from my hands, our fingers brushing just barely. Then he lifted the hem of his shirt and wiped the lenses on the dry cotton of his undershirt—the one I knew clung far too closely to the body beneath it. I caught a glimpse of pale skin, the sharp jut of his hip above the low-rise jeans he wore. Jeans chosen, no doubt, because Sirius wore them. Because Sirius thought they were cool. Hot. The quiet imitation siblings fell into without realizing it—or so I’d heard.

But in that moment, Regulus wasn’t copying anyone.

He didn’t simply hand my glasses back. Instead, he stepped closer and slid them onto my face himself, careful and unhurried, tucking the arms behind my ears with a familiarity so intimate it stole the breath from my lungs. It felt practiced, as though we’d done this before—as though we had been lovers in some other life and were only now remembering.

“Fait,” he said.

Just one word. Casual. Effortless.

As if speaking French—on top of placing my glasses on my face like that—didn’t utterly undo me where I stood.

I wanted to kiss him. Right there in the shop. Right where the entire world could see—and know—that I was utterly, irrevocably taken with this boy.

But I couldn’t...

I had to tear my gaze away from those marble-blue eyes before they stripped me of whatever sense I had left. They had already done enough damage.

“Thank you,” I said, keeping my voice even, smaller than I felt.

He turned from me then, drifting down one of the narrow aisles toward the sound of Remus’ voice. His soon-to-be brother-in-law. The words sat strangely in my chest. I knew people like them—like me—were never meant to marry. Not really. Not openly. Not without consequence.

And yet, Sirius and Remus were not the sort to accept no for an answer. Legal or not. Now or ever. They would carve out a life for themselves regardless of the world’s permission.

I lingered where I was, pretending to browse while listening. Remus was animated, pulling books from the shelves, flipping them open, pointing out passages and illustrations. Regulus listened intently, fingers brushing spines, head tilted in quiet interest.

I wanted to be the one doing that.

I wanted to tell him which stories would catch his attention, which ones would linger with him long after the final page. But the truth was, I only knew poetry—mostly from the Muggle world. Poems full of yearning and restraint. Of love deferred. Of aching silences and beautiful things never quite touched.

And as lovely as they were, Regulus deserved more than that.

He deserved long stories. Grand adventures. Happy endings that arrived without apology.

Not the kind of poetry I carried in my chest.

Nothing I could offer.

I realized—too late—that he was speaking to me.

“Sorry?” I turned toward him, startled from my thoughts.

“Author,” he repeated, watching me carefully. “Who is your favourite?”

A soft huff of near-laughter escaped me. Of course he would ask that. Of course it would be him.

“Oscar Wilde.”

Something brightened in him at once. Not overtly—Regulus was never overt—but I saw it. Felt it.

“I am too fond of reading books to care to write them,” he said, smooth and unhurried, as if the words had always belonged to him.

My heart stuttered. Quoted. Perfectly. Casually.

“Dorian Gray,” I replied, just as softly, meeting his gaze.

Not a question. An understanding.

For a moment, the rain outside faded. The shop, the others, the world itself seemed to recede, leaving only the two of us standing there—balanced on the edge of something unnamed, something dangerous, something beautiful.

—

I wasn’t sure where the days had gone. Time had slipped through my fingers somewhere between shared meals and quiet glances, between conversations that lingered too long and silences that felt heavy with meaning. But soon enough, weeks had passed.

A gentle, almost hesitant, knock came at my door one evening as I sat at my desk, idly flipping through a Quidditch magazine without really reading a word.

“Come in.”

I half expected Mum, tray in hand, offering sweets or a cuppa. Instead, the soft footfalls that crossed the threshold belonged to someone else entirely.

I looked up, and there he was.

A smile found me before I could stop it.

“Regulus.”

He stood just inside the door, clutching a tattered book to his chest, almost defensively, as if it might disappear if he loosened his grip. The lamplight caught the sharp lines of his face, softened the shadows beneath his eyes.

“Come,” I said quietly, gesturing toward the small lounge in front of the windows.

He shut the door behind him without a sound and followed me to the settee. We sat close enough that our knees nearly touched, the air between us charged and careful all at once.

After a moment, he passed me the book. Not eagerly. Not reluctantly. Just… there.

Even with it in my hands, I searched his face—those deep, dark eyes—for permission. He gave the smallest nod, barely there, and I opened it.

The pages were filled. Dozens upon dozens of drawings. Portraits—people I recognised immediately. Sirius, rendered with sharp angles and reckless charm. Remus, softer, thoughtful. Animals, captured mid-motion. Trees, water, the curve of hills.

And then—

Me.

My breath caught.

I lingered on the sketch, fingers brushing the edge of the page. It was so precise it felt unreal, as if the image had been taken with a camera and pressed into paper to exist there forever. The tilt of my head. The fall of my hair. The way my eyes looked when I wasn’t paying attention.

“When did you draw this one?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

“The first day I was here,” he whispered.

I turned the page.

And then another.

More of me, scattered throughout the book. Some quick, fleeting impressions. Others detailed and deliberate, as though he had studied me with the same reverence Albrecht Dürer once gave his subjects.

My throat tightened.

“They’re lovely,” I said at last.

But I wasn’t looking at the pages anymore.

I was looking at him. At those beautiful eyes—heavy-lidded, dark, and shining softly in the moonlight spilling through the window—eyes that had been seeing me far longer, and far deeper, than I had ever dared to hope.

Regulus had moved closer. Bolder than I had ever dared to be. His eyes searched mine, lingering there, as if he were looking for any sign of doubt—or perhaps longing.

His face was so near now that I could feel his breath against my lips, warm and unsteady.

“Will you kiss me?” he asked, the words barely more than a whispered breath between us.

My heart leapt violently in my chest. This had to be a dream. It had to be. Moments like this didn’t happen to people like me. Not like this.

But it wasn’t a dream.

I nodded, afraid that if I spoke the moment might shatter, and leaned forward, closing the last fragile distance between us until our lips met.

Oh—how wonderful it was.

His lips were soft as silk, sweet as honey, fitting against mine as though they had always known how. He made a small, contented sound against my mouth, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

And I—

I was over the moon.

I wanted to be vulgar...

Wanted to tell him all the things that burned on my tongue—the things I wanted to do to him, the things I wanted him to do to me. Every selfish, aching thought that had been building quietly inside me for weeks.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I pulled back just enough to look at him. To watch his lashes flutter as he caught his breath, his lips still parted, soft and pink from my kiss.

I lifted my hands and cradled his face, thumbs warm against his cheeks, grounding myself in the simple fact of him being here. Real. Willing.

I kissed his eyelids, one and then the other, slow and reverent, as if sealing something sacred rather than indulgent.

I didn’t speak.

I didn’t need to.

I just held his face in my hands, committing the feel of him—the warmth, the closeness, the promise—to memory, knowing that restraint, somehow, made it all burn even brighter.

“Tell me you want me,” he finally broke the silence.

And I did. Merlin, I did—so deeply it bordered on pain. Wanting him felt like standing too close to the sun: radiant, dangerous, irresistible. Yet doubt clawed at me all the same. How could I presume to make him happy? To be enough for someone like him?

Class would never be the barrier. Nor age—we were scarcely two years apart, closer in years than he and his own brother. The obstacle was me. My fear. My carefulness. My insistence on restraint when every part of me ached to abandon it.

“I—”

I faltered, then lifted my hand, running my thumb slowly over his lower lip. The softness of it stole the breath straight from my lungs.

“I want you,” I said at last, the words trembling but true. I needed him to hear it—needed myself to hear it. To make it real.

Selfishness be damned. I loved this boy. Wholly. Recklessly.

“I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions,” I murmured, my voice low. “I want to use them. To enjoy them. And to dominate them.”

Oscar Wilde—only fitting.

“Quotation is a serviceable substitute for wit,” he whispered back, his mouth curving, eyes dark with challenge.

“I can resist anything except temptation,” I replied, leaning closer, my forehead brushing his.

“The only way to get rid of temptation,” he breathed, voice silk and smoke, “is to yield to it.”

And then there was no more space for words.