fluff jegulus only

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Regulus Arcturus Black woke up knowing two impossible things.

First: he had died

Second: he had read this story before.

The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, shadowed by dark green hangings embroidered with the Black family crest. The air smelled faintly of old magic and polished wood. For a brief, disorienting moment, he thought this was the afterlife. Then memory struck like cold water.

Harry Potter.

The books. The films. The endless online discussions dissecting his own choices, his life, his cowardice yet people still believe him as a grey hero.

Regulus sat up abruptly.

His hands were younger. Unmarked. No Dark Mark burned into his forearm yet.

A sharp, controlled breath escaped him.

“So,” he murmured to the empty room, voice soft but steady, “this is before everything goes wrong.”

Regulus did not panic. Panic was useless. Panic was noisy. Panic drew attention and attention, in the House of Black, was a weapon others wielded against you.

Instead, he observed.

This was the Marauders era. Sirius, Regulus brother was still here, loud, brilliant, and already halfway out the door. Walburga Black’s portrait had not yet learned how to scream quite so viciously. Voldemort was rising, not fallen. The war was approaching, like a storm everyone pretended not to see.

And Regulus knew how the story ended.

He knew about Peter Pettigrew.

He knew about Sirius’s imprisonment.

He knew about Kreacher’s suffering.

He knew about the Horcrux hidden in the cave.

He knew that he would die young.

That knowledge settled into him like a second spine- rigid, unyielding, impossible to ignore.

But Regulus Black had never been a man of illusions. He had followed Voldemort once because he believed in order, in strength, in purpose. He had stayed because leaving felt more dangerous than obedience.

Now, he had something he had never possessed before.

Regulus stood at the edge of the lane, cloak drawn tight around him. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t care. But when the Dark Mark rose above the cottage, his heart stopped.

He knew.

He ran.

By the time he reached the ruins, it was over — the house shattered, silence everywhere except the faint sob of a child. He saw them first: Lily, lifeless on the floor, and James…

James, who had once laughed so loud it could drown out the war itself.

Regulus knelt beside him. His hands trembled as he brushed soot from James’s cheek. “You fool,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You said you’d never lose.

A cold wind swept through the room, scattering ashes like snow. Somewhere upstairs, the baby cried — Harry, untouched by the curse that had ended everything.

Regulus pressed his forehead against James’s, breathing in the faint scent of smoke and cologne. “I should’ve told you,” he murmured. “That I—” He swallowed the rest. There was no one left to hear it.

He stood, pulling his wand. With a flick, he cast a silent charm , a whisper of protection, an untraceable goodbye over the crying child. Then, without another glance back, he disappeared into the night.

The world would remember James Potter as a hero.

The castle was never quiet after the prank.

It buzzed with whispers, all dripping with judgment.

“Did you hear? Snape almost died.”

“They say Lupin’s a—”

“—and Sirius Black nearly—”

Remus Lupin had stopped listening days ago. He kept his head down, sat in the farthest corner of the library, and convinced himself that the silence of parchment was safer than people.

Until they showed up.

Five of them. All green ties except one, all trouble in different packaging.

Regulus Black stood at the center — posture perfect, expression unimpressed by the world.

Pandora trailed beside him, eyes bright and faraway like she was seeing thoughts instead of people.

Evan Rosier leaned casually against a pillar, smirk just sharp enough to cut.

Barty Crouch Jr. twirled his wand like he was itching to hex someone purely out of boredom.

And Dorcas Meadowes — half Slytherin by temperament, half Gryffindor by defiance — had that calm, calculating glare that made everyone shut up when she used it.

“Lupin,” Regulus greeted, like he was acknowledging a challenge rather than a person.

Remus looked up from his book. “Regulus.”

“Don’t sound so nervous,” Barty drawled, sliding into the seat across from him. “If we wanted to hex you, we’d have done it by now.”

Pandora smiled dreamily. “We just wanted to see if you were still breathing.”

Evan flicked his wand, conjuring a lemon drop from thin air. “You look like you’ve been chewing guilt for breakfast.”

Remus sighed. “You came here to mock me, then.”

“Mock you?” Dorcas raised an eyebrow. “No. We leave that to your friends.”

That one hit like a curse.

Regulus crossed his arms. “They’re avoiding you.”

“I’m giving them space.”

Barty snorted. “Oh yes, the noble Gryffindor martyr routine. How very poetic.”

Remus opened his mouth — but Pandora beat him to it, voice soft but sure. “You didn’t deserve what happened. You didn’t plan it. And you shouldn’t have to sit alone for something you didn’t do.”

Something in her tone made even Barty pause.

Evan leaned forward, smirk fading slightly. “We don’t exactly do the ‘comfort’ thing often, Lupin. Take it while it lasts.”

Remus blinked. “You’re serious.”

“Regulus is the only Black here, actually,” Dorcas said, straight-faced.

Barty groaned. “Don’t encourage him, Dorc.”

A laugh escaped Remus before he could stop it — quiet, awkward, but real. And that was when Regulus sat down beside him, pulling out his own book like it was nothing.

“Consider this your official transfer,” Regulus said. “You’re ours now.”

Remus frowned. “Yours?

Pandora popped a chocolate frog into her mouth. “Slytherin Skittles, darling. We collect strays.”

The Great Hall — the Next Morning

Whispers spread faster than Filch’s temper.

Remus Lupin, the quiet Gryffindor prefect, was sitting at the Slytherin table

With them.

Evan and Barty were openly mocking anyone who stared too long.

Pandora was humming, braiding Dorcas’s hair with her wand.

Regulus was calmly pouring Remus pumpkin juice like it was a centuries-old tradition.

When James and Sirius entered the hall, everything went still.

Sirius froze mid-step, eyes locking on his brother — on Regulus sitting beside Remus Lupin.

James looked ready to intervene until Barty spoke first, voice loud enough to carry.

“Oh, look, the ex-friends have arrived. Should we bow, or will a glare suffice?”

Evan smirked. “Don’t bother. They’re used to being the center of attention.”

Sirius bristled. “Regulus, what the bloody hell—”

Regulus didn’t even look up from his toast. “Protecting someone you nearly destroyed, brother. Try it sometime.”

A stunned silence. Even the enchanted ceiling seemed to pause.

Dorcas tilted her head. “Brutal, but fair.”

James opened his mouth, but Pandora’s soft voice cut through. “Remus doesn’t need defending,” she said, “but he deserves it.”

Remus, cheeks pink and words lost, finally murmured, “You don’t have to do this.”

Regulus turned to him, calm and sure. “We know. That’s why we are.”

And when Sirius stormed out of the Great Hall, everyone noticed how the Slytherins didn’t laugh — didn’t gloat — only stood a little taller around Remus Lupin.

That morning, Gryffindor lost one of its quietest hearts.

Slytherin, against all odds, gained one.

By the end of term, the castle had stopped whispering.

Because when someone tried, they were met with Evan’s smirk, Barty’s wand, Dorcas’s deadly stare, Pandora’s eerie calm, or — worst of all — Regulus Black’s silence.

And Remus Lupin?

He finally stopped sitting alone.