#aetherraeysworks

It was a simple misunderstanding.

And although Regulus is a man of few words, most of them are accompanied with a bit of bite. Ever-so-slightly harsh in a way that wards of anyone who would take them as mean-spirited, or brand him as someone to avoid.

He doesn’t mind this.

Regulus is very aware that he could easily change this, change how people perceive him and make his overall disposition far more pleasant if he wanted to. But he won’t, already deemed it far too much effort for people who quite frankly don’t deserve it.

Though, there are a select few who got a sort of ‘special treatment’ from Regulus. He extended this to people like Barty, Evan, Dorcas, Pandora—his friends—and, because he wasn’t cruel by any means, to other just naturally kind souls; people who brought the best out of him even if he didn’t want them to.

People like Professor Mcgonagall, Lily Evans—you.

Its not like his personality did a entire 180 when he was around you, not at all—its more that, breathing felt easier, he never had to think too hard when you were around, like you were in sync. It was just so easy to be himself if you were there.

Never once did you shame him for being too gloomy, or too sarcastic or snarky, you just giggled behind your hand and breathe into his ears something just as sardonic. Entertained his playful banter and matched his wit word for word like it was second nature.

It was a little routine you’d built, la little secret for just the two of you. At first it was just in English, a game of sly mumbles and whispered words, teasing traded over textbooks and tea in the common room. Until your own little habits just sort of slipped into it, late one evening when you muttered under your breath at the sound of Barty barrelling through the common room. Regulus beside you, one of your legs draped over his—he’d heard you say something, and for a moment he thought he’d misheard.

As much as he wracked his brain, over and over repeating the phrase you had said, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he knew what you meant—how he understood your words without knowing them.

Turning to you with a tilted head, before he leaned over and whispered to you in French, eyes darting between you and Barty. Your lips split into a grin as the dots connected and it was a slippery slope from there—you didn’t understand every word he threw at you, but you caught enough—the tone, the rhythm, the smirk behind the syllables.

It wasn’t about exact comprehension, really. It was about cadence. Intention.

It was almost comforting, this back-and-forth; your own little world made up of half-understood words, endearing mockery and jest.

You started using it to your advantage—whispering phrases you knew sounded sweet but carried just enough mischief to make him squint at you suspiciously. Bickering back and forth, his brows would sometimes furrow when you spoke, but he’d recover quickly, responding as though he understood everything perfectly with just the right amount of bite.

Regulus would roll his eyes, feigning boredom when you would spew sentence after sentence, tongue tripping over itself in a stream of half-comprehendible words, but his lips always twitched like he was fighting a smile. You taunted him endlessly and he wound you up again and again—all harmless fun and games until well, it wasn’t.

The common room was nearly empty—dimly lit by the glim of candles, the soft hiss of the fire and faint crackle of the logs filling the room. One of the long days were the night took too long to come. Both you and Regulus had been occupied with assignments all morning and had hardly seen each other, lunch and dinner had passed by the time you were finally able to haul yourself away from your study group.

There was a faint smell of parchment that lingered in the room with just a hint of smoke, and Regulus sat quietly in the corner, tea still steaming, quill lying long forgotten on the table and a book open on his lap.

You moved on impulse, silent and fluidly drifting through the room and to the corner where your boyfriend sat. Plopping yourself practically on top of him with little grace, legs thrown over his as you curled into his side.

Regulus didn’t mind. He never said as much, and he didn’t pull away either.

So naturally, you mindlessly continued your little habit.

Leaving virtually no space between you whenever you’d gravitate towards him—it was second nature at this point. There was just something about how he held you, his affection was exactly grandious in any way; it shon in quieter moments like this. In the nonsense patterns the tips of his fingers make against your skin, or instead of a verbal greeting, Regulus would shift his body when he’d hear you coming, making room for you to slot yourself beside him like a lock and key. How when you settled he’d almost breathe out a sigh of relief as if there was a terrible weight on his shoulder and you’d come to ease it—like his bones were rejoicing at your presence,

It felt wrong to sit any other way.

To deny either of you the comfort of the other.

To act like this wasn’t a million times better than sitting without your limbs tangled together, almost inconviently so.

At least that’s how you saw it.

You could feel his heartbeat where your temple rested against his shoulder; calm and steady—it was almost hypnotic. The quiet metronome of his pulse making your eyes feel just that bit heavier. He must have noticed the way your lids sagged, or how every muscle in your body had given out and now rested comfortably on his side.

“Toujours collée à moi, toi, (Always stuck to me, you,)” he murmured suddenly, voice low and touched with that tired amusement that always found its way into his words when he was this relaxed. And you were almost asleep when his turned to you, leaning in and letting the tip of his nose graze the skin beneath your ear before planting the smallest, most gentle peck.

Then, under his breath, “quelle sangsue…(what a leech…)”

It wasn’t cruel.

Not really.

Well, not in his mind at least, it was teasing—a fond sort of complaint, the kind of thing that’s said with a cheeky smile, the kind of thing that would earn him a light swat had you been awake enough.

And if he’d let his linger on your skin for just a moment more, maybe you would have been able to feel the way they stretched upwards into the smallest of smiles. It was that downturned one that you loved, that was for him more than anything—he even fought the urge to press his lips to you again, in fear of stirring you, like he’d already been too indulgent with that one timid peck.

Though, he had stirred you, because you heard him. The words hung there, foreign and sharp-edged and they made your stomach lurch at the implication—you knew what that meant, or at least you thought you did.

Suddenly, your eyes were no longer heavy, and sleep was not so tempting. Still you didn’t move, kept your eyes closed and stayed curled up all but on top of your boyfriend, acutely aware of each and every point of contact your bodies were making.

Come to think of it, as you feigned sleep, you found yourself struggling to recall a single time when you weren’t completely invading his space—when your body wasn’t irritatingly close to his, a moment when your presence wasn’t entirely inescapable. How overbearing you must be.

Gods, maybe you were always stuck to him.

Regulus has always been someone who enjoyed his solitude, liked to be alone with his thoughts and here you were taking that away from him.

You just assumed you were exempt, that he didn’t mind you being constantly glued to his side. And not once did he complain, probably for your sake—how could you have been so inconsiderate?

The words replayed over and over until you couldn’t bring yourself to continue laying on him. So you shifted, slow and careful, as if your bones were still heavy with sleep. Regulus barely stirred, too lost in whatever quiet thought had softened his face earlier, and you used that mercy to your advantage. Pushing yourself upright just a little, enough to murmur in a voice still thick with faux-sleep,

“I’m—um…I’m gonna go to bed.”

You could still feel the warmth of his arm at your side, how his thumb ran over the fabric of your shirt. Regulus was barely able to get a word out before you’d stood up, it was all so sudden—there was no time to ask you to stay a little longer, no kiss goodnight, no lazy drape of your hand across his shoulders. Just a rushed, whispered ‘goodnight’ and the ghost of a smile he couldn’t quite make out in the dark. You slipped away quick and silent, padding up the stairs to your dorm and slipping under your own blankets as you struggled to swallow the tightness that was building in your throat.

The next morning was just as busy as the last few had been, but when you finally had a moment—the whiplash cruel. He greeted you with that soft peck and a “good morning” and a slight furrow between his brows when you didn’t lean into him the way you always did. You did smiled back, warm as ever, and that only seemed to confuse him more.

Though, you kept your hands to yourself, as much as they itched and searched for his, kept your shoulder from brushing his, kept your body angled just enough away. It was subtle, agonisinglys so, an you though maybe he might not notice, and if he did, you hoped he’d be glad.

It was a slow withdrawal for the days to come. Like you were breaking a bad habit, weaning yourself off of him—you convinced yourself that this was necessary, because you loved him too much to suffocate him. The contrast was so stark. Cold yet warm, near by far—because you were still you just out of reach—still teased him in that half-formed jumble of languages, still whispered smart little quips that earned you the usual narrow-eyed smirk.

You still giggled at his sharp jokes, treated him the way you always had…just without the part where your bodies were tangled, where you rested your chin on his shoulder, where your fingers found his without thinking.

At first, he asked if you were coming down with something. It was the only possible reason in his mind for this odd behaviour you were displaying; why else would you be avoiding his touch like the plague?

But you laughed him off, shook your head and smiled, told him you were fine. Which wasn’t entirely a lie, but it still didn’t completely fool. He pressed, gently but worriedly, asking if something had upset you, you looked so genuinely baffled that he swallowed the rest of the question before it reached his tongue.

So, instead he watched—he was good at that.

Regulus knew he wasn’t crazy, he could see how your smile fell flat the second you thought he wasn’t looking or how you stared at the seat beside him for a second too long before choosing another. Saw that your hand twitched like it wanted to reach out but didn’t, it started to bleed into him.

The distance.

He was snappish, irritable, made him withdraw into himself like he’d been left out in the cold. Barty made a comment about him being moody and Regulus nearly hexed him. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, couldn’t fathom why you suddenly treated the space between you like it was necessary, like being close would burn you.

Almost week went by—one of the longest, most miserable weeks Regulus had experienced in a long time. But he respected it—your strange newfound aversion to leaning against him, your insistence on walking side-by-side instead of arm-in-arm. He respected it not just because he loved you, because if you needed this space, he would never take that away.

But when the sun set and he found his bed that bit colder and the blanket suddenly far too much for one, he’d stayed awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the last month, searching for what could have caused this.

Regulus was smart—top of all his classes, skipped almost two full academic years, and yet for the life of him, he couldn’t figure this out. He kept coming up empty-handed every time, and it was really starting to get to him. And the spiral began, every sign pointed to the one thing he dreaded.

You were going to leave him.

This was your way of preparing yourself, preparing him.

He was unravelling by the end of the week.

And Gods did he just want to be selfish, to move across the room everytime you avoided him, to indulge himself in the one slither of solace he’d grown spoilt with—desperate for, lonely without.

Finally, when he couldn’t physically stand it anymore—when the ache in his chest had worn him down to the last sleepless night he could bear—he pulled you aside during a free period. Into his empty dorm room that you hadn’t seen in over a week. His hand closed around your wrist before he could think better of it, then dropped it just as quickly like he’d committed some unforgivable act.

When you caught a glimpse of his face, it was almost foreign.

His eyes were wide and frantic in a way you’d only seen a handful of times, and as much as he tried to steady his hand in tight fists by his side, you’d felt the way they trembled slightly as they let you go.

“Is something wrong?” he asked first, and when you opened your mouth he pushed forward like he was afraid he’d never have the voice to speak again and the words were getting out quickly enough.

“Did I upset you? Did I—did I do something? Do you—” His words got caught, stuck on his tongue like it physically hurt to get them out, and his throat bobbed. “Do you hate me?”

Immediately your face crumbled, brows knitting together as you rushed out words, “What? No. Reggie—no, never! What’s going on?” You grabbed his arm on instinct—warm and gentle, just like how he remembered; and the effect it had on him was instantaneous.

His breath hitched just slightly before he pressed his lips into a thin line as if to steady himself, but the tension in his shoulders visibly released. Even if he could bring himself to meet your eyes, his own flickered helplessly to where you held him.

“Then why do you treat me with such contempt? Why won’t you come near me? Did I do something to make you want to leave?”

Leave.

You blinked at him, actually stunned—lips parted to speak but words seemed to fail you, because never—not once—had the thought even crossed your mind. All you could do was shake your head, adamant, because how could he think that? He couldn’t possibly believe you’d ever leave him?

You grabbed his arms then, both of them, sliding your hands down slow and deliberate, like they were memorising the surface of his skin until they met his. And his fingers curled around yours like he’d been starving for the contact.

Emptying your lungs in one sharp exhale, you squeezed his hand firmly as you spoke, guilt burning at the base of your stomach.

”No. No, I—I never meant to make you feel that way. I’m not going anywhere. I was only doing it for you. I thought it was what you wanted.”

“What I wanted?” His voice pitched so sharply it almost echoed. “Why on earth would I want this? Why would I want you far?”

He relinquished his hold on your hand and ran a hand through his hair, pulling harshly at the roots as his lips spilled words faster than he could filter them. “I’ve spent the whole week thinking about this—about you, about the way you lean on me—what made you think I wanted any of this?”

Your cheeks burned, shame, hurt, frustration all mangled together, and then you were snapping, mouth twisting and voice sharper than you’d planned, on the defence.

“Can you blame me? It’s because of what you said, Regulus. I heard you that night.”

His name on your lips wasn’t soft anymore, it was brittle, trembling and cracking at the end. Regulus could see the sheen building on your eyes, how you breath skipped at you watched him in silence, waiting—while he wracked his brain yet again for what you could be talking about. His own brows knitted together high on his forehead and a wash of confusion painted his face, but he only shook his head as he spoke,

“What? What are you talking about?”

Your blood only festered warmer, frustration prickling up your spine as you took a step away from him, fists clenched at your sides. But he didn’t let you go far, hands reaching out to take yours again.

“Maybe you thought I was asleep but—” you swallowed before the words tumbled out,”—but you called me a parasite, Regulus. What else was I suppossed to think?!”

His mouth opened, then closed his brows pulling impossibly tighter, “I—no. **Never. I would never call you that.”

There was no attempt to conceal the scoff that left your lips, followed by another step back—but he didn’t let go.

“But you did.”

You were serious, he could tell, could hear it in your voice; the flat tone it took, just how adamant you were, that you were one hundred percent sure that he’d called you such a mean and nasty thing. “And you were right—I didn’t realise how overbearing I was being and I‘m trying to fix it!”

Regulus was still holding you, hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, his gaze weighty on your face and silence even heavier, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. Not when you were trying to calm your pulse, trying to ignore the feeling of his skin on yours, not when you knew you’d be met with **those **eyes—soft and desperate and pleading.

It was already in motion, the tell-tale signs were there. That clogged, suffocating feeling in your sinuses, the tightness at the back of your throat and burning behind your eyes, the way each word was harder to get out than the last.

“…Sangsue?” you sniffed, “You really don’t remember calling me sangsue?”

The recognition visibly washed across his face and his other hand reached for yours before you had time to react, grasping both your hands, almost frantic. “Yes—I said that, but it doesn’t mean...I don’t think you’re—I’d never call you that.”

You still couldn’t be believe him, not fully. You’d heard the word with your own ears, in his voice, knew what that word meant to you.

“I meant it teasingly,” he speaking quicker, his fingers tightened around yours instinctively like he knew you’d try pull away, words rushing out to reduce the damage he’d done that night. “Endearingly. It’s—it’s like calling you clingy, but not in a bad way, in the way you…you cling to me. The way you hang onto me. It wasn’t an insult. I—”

He winced. “A leech. I meant leech.”

Your eyes roll back.

“Oh, fantastic,” you scoff, deadpanned. “because that’s so much better.”

Regulus nodded rapidly, almost too rapidly, as though he feared the apology wouldn’t land unless he offered it with his entire body. A helpless sound left him—something between a groan and a plea. “I know,” he blurted, voice thin and earnest. “I know it sounds awful. I know it does.”

He was tugging you closer, caution but insistent as he spoke—rambled, spilled out words trying to fix things, make the anger and hurt that was etched into your face leave.

“It’s all a misunderstanding. I’m sorry. I won’t—I won’t use that word again, not ever. I didn’t realise how it would sound, what it meant to you, I didn’t know you’d heard me, I—” His breath faltered, shoulders caving in a way that made your throat tighten all over again.

Step by step, he coaxed you forward until the backs of his knees hit the bedframe. The moment they did, he let himself sink down onto it, but he didn’t let go of you—not once. Instead, his hands slid to your waist, fingers splaying wide over your waist and hips as if he were trying to relearn the shape of you with his palms.

“I never want you far from me,” he said, voice quieter now, raw at the edges. He looked up at you, searching your face like he needed to analyse every flicker of emotion there.

When you speak your voice is baseless and brittle, “You don’t?”

“Not for a moment.” He lifted your hands to his lips and pressed small, desperate kisses to the backs of them.

”This last week has been—” He broke off, exhaling shakily. The breath collapsed out of him, “It’s been miserable,” he confessed, the word barely above a whisper. “Everything felt wrong. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t focus—”

When your hands find their way into his hair, he quiets without thinking. Eyes fluttering shut, like solace had finally been granted to him, and his thumbs drew unconscious lines along your sides, small, soothing, pleading motions that made you melt, made you forget, made you forgive.

“How could I ever not want this?” he murmured, leaning into your touch.

“There’s no better feeling in the world.”

It settled into the air.

Not light or airy like smoke—it didn’t veil the room and drift between the space between you. No, it hung heavy, smog-like. Polluting—tangling around you, suffocating, smothering.

Inescapable.

Bouncing off the walls, pitched and frantic, like a cruel reminder of how they were ejected out of his mouth.

Love.

In love.

In love with. He’s in love. With you.

And Regulus didn’t look upset, didn’t look the slightest bit surprised, actually. His gaze just stayed on Barty, brows twitched up into concern, the sympathy in his eyes almost unbearable—and for a moment, it made Barty forget what he’d said.

Forget what he’d done.

Just for a moment, though. Because he caught that look on your face—wide-eyed, lips parted slightly like he’d just knocked the air out of you.

You could still feel the crack and fizzle his words left on your skin, the room suddenly feeling too small and too large all at the same time, overbearing—spinning.

Barty just stood there, chest heaving, words still whistling in the space between you, thick and terrible and irreversible. Hands trembling at his sides, nails biting into the meat of his palms in a desperate attempt to anchor himself—but it was useless.

So he turned.

With no noise, no warning—just the sudden pivot of feet against floorboards, spinning with all the grace of someone trying to outrun their own skin, reaching for the door. That bloody door again. Regulus' eyes caught it instantly, that same familiar ache flared in his chest—the sight of Barty leaving, again, always on the wrong side of it.

But this time, the door wasn’t given a chance to open wide enough.

It slammed shut.

With a sharp crack of magic that echoed like a whip across the room—startling and final. Barty flinched, breath catching in his throat as his hand flew back like he'd been burnt. He stilled. And then he turned.

You hadn’t moved. Not really. Just your brows—pinched upwards, your eyes wild with panic, locked on the floor with a sheen of something soft and terrible and raw blooming there.

Barty kept his face turned away, scrubbing his palms over his eyes harshly, like he could erase himself if he tried hard enough. His voice dropped to a tone, wrecked and shameful: “I didn’t want you to know...”

A whispered confession, one so soaked with guilt that it nearly burned when it left his lips.

It fell deaf on your ears.

Because you were still locked in the past—trapped in the moment he’d said those words.

Barty’s chest heaved as his gaze flickered between your face and the sealed door, the space between all three of you stretching taut like a string about to snap.

And then—softly, almost inaudibly—you breathed, “You love me.”

Not a question. Not quite a statement. More of…a recitation. A dazed echo of the words that still rang around the room like ghosts.

Barty’s spine curled inward.

It all cracked open again—splintering—his panic flooding back in a tide. He took one uncertain step forward, hands twitching, reaching halfway to yours before falling short. Hovering.

Unsteady.

Outstretched but not touching—as if breaking the invisible wall he’d placed between you would cause some natural disaster, a tornado, or tsunami of emotions that he wouldn’t be able to control, wouldn’t be able to keep a lid on.

Not that he was doing a good job of it now.

He was trembling almost; barely stepping closer, teetering on the edge of your space like you were some sort of wounded animal that would run away at the slightest wrong move—and everything Barty had done so far was wrong.

So wrong.

Because despite all his careful and fretting motions towards you, his mouth betrayed him. One again, spilling, spewing—purging all half-formed thoughts that entered his mind.

“No—I mean, yes—I didn’t mean to say it—I’m sorry—fuck—" His voice was a tremor of panic and confession, words tripping over themselves in a breathless, too-fast rush. "It’s not—I tried to stop it, I swear, I swear—You have to understand, Tres. I’m not trying to ruin anything, I wouldn’t— You’re with Reg, it’s you two—I know that—”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

The words landed quietly, even—soft, like the gentle snap of a twig—barely louder than a thought, yet enough to still the room.

Regulus.

If Barty’s head had whipped any faster, it surely would have spun off his neck—staring at his friend wide-eyed, lips still parted with the remnants of his hysteric rants. Even as he continued, Barty could only gape at him, like his words were foreign—of a different frequency that he couldn’t comprehend,

“It doesn’t have to be that way—just us…”

Oh.

Oh.

This was bad—unfair actually.

Because now Barty was waiting for your answer, for your reaction—praying it wasn’t negative, that you wouldn’t revolt and shun the idea. Shun him.

It was bad because now he was hoping.

And Regulus for all his level-headedness, had spoken on a whim—thrown out what he’d been thinking about since he’d noticed the way Barty looked at you, the way you looked at him—what he’d contemplated for weeks in Barty’s absence.

He wasn’t sure how you’d react, he wasn’t sure what reaction he wanted. This was completely uncharted territory. But all Regulus wanted was to fix this—correct the mistake that made everything unravel in the first place.

And for some reason, the idea of—whatever it was he’d indirectly suggested, didn’t seem so bad—maybe it was because it’s with Barty, maybe it’s because it was you. And quite frankly, Regulus would do anything for you.

Anything.

He’d burn the world—him with it—if that’s what you wanted.

You’d become somewhat of a parrot. Body still stiff as a board, but at least your lips moved, at least your eyes finally shifted from their seemingly endless bore into the stone you all stood on—flitting between them both before landing on Regulus.

“You want…?” you didn’t finish the thought, like the words had escaped you. Not exactly hopeful—it wasn’t a yes or a no, rejection or acceptance. It floated somewhere in the middle.

And Barty didn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure he could.

Hands still half-lifted between you, trembling faintly—ghosting at the edges of your presence without daring to touch. Not yet. Not until you gave him something-any emotion, a reaction, permission, forgiveness, anything.

You still hadn’t looked at him. Not fully.

Your gaze lingered on Regulus instead, as if whatever steadiness you had left was tethered to him—waiting for him to say more, tell you what exactly he meant, what he wanted, but he didn’t. And when you spoke again, your voice was quiet.

“I—Are you—you’re okay with that?”

He shifted slightly, just a flicker of movement like a breath passing through him. “It doesn’t have to be…messy or complicated—we don’t have to figure everything out right now either.”

“You’re serious,” you said—not a question, not a joke.

Regulus gave the smallest nod. “I wouldn’t say it if I weren’t.”

Another pause.

Shorter than the last break of silence, but just as thick and weighty with indecision, with a shaky exhale, you spoke again—turning your eyes to Barty—finally—slowly, cautiously, like he was something volatile. Eyes searching his face, and he let you.

Didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just stood there and let you look.

Hands just barely shifting away from you, curling in like the weight of the words—and your silence—was finally catching up to him.

“Do you hate me?”

Barty blinked. Shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What? No. No—I could never.” His brows arched high on his forehead, knitting together as he swallowed thickly.

“I-it was just eating me up. I didn’t want to ruin anything, Tres—I had to leave.”

Your hands were twitching at your sides.

A restless sort of ache, a tension that built with every breath Barty took—every word that slipped from his mouth, soaked in shame and frayed regret. Brows furrowed and drawn tight with a frown. It was too much. Too many unsaid things. Too many weeks spent wondering. And before you could talk yourself out of it, before hesitation could dig its claws in again—you were moving.

Arms wrapping around him.

Tightly.

No warning. No preamble. Just motion. Need. Comfort.

Barty sucked in a sharp breath, stunned, stiff—but then, then—he melted.

Completely crumbled into you like he'd been holding himself up for too long. His chest sagged against yours, hands still hovering, still unsure even as his body folded into the contact like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.

Your face pressed into the fabric of his shirt, words muffled and breath shaky.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered—pleaded. “I’m sorry, J. I didn’t—I didn’t know. I didn’t realise. I—”

The words were barely coming out fast enough—tangled in your throat, rushed from your lips, a breathless confession you hadn’t even known was building until now. “I should have—I should’ve just—Junior, I’m so sorry—”

He didn’t speak.

He just breathed. Finally, relinquishing all the air in his lungs as if to give it to you as a peace offering.

Eyes squeezed shut so tightly it hurt—because this. This. This was all he’d let himself imagine in the quietest moments, in the loneliest stretches of night. Your arms around him. Your warmth, your voice, close and real and right here.

He almost couldn’t let himself believe it.

So he just stood like that for a second longer—soaking in the weight of you, the heat your body radiated, the shaking vibrations of your voice against him.

Only then did he move.

Slowly, like he was afraid the spell would break if he wasn’t careful, like the moment would vanish into smoke and he’d wake up in a gasp of breath in Avery’s dorm. His arms rose from his sides, his hands hovering just an inch above your back—then resting there, curling gently.

For a while he just held you to him in a soft, gentle embrace—brows pinched high on his forehead as he relished in the first real contact he’s had in weeks.

You barely registered the tender brush of Regulus’ fingers over the back of your arm, or the sound of his receding footsteps. Like you couldn’t bear to spread your attention between anything other than Barty and how his arms were wrapped around your middle.

But he wasn’t just holding you anymore, he was squeezing, melting, grasping at the fabric of your robes as if to conjoin on an atomic level.

Neither of you spoke for a long while.

There was nothing left to say—not yet, not tonight. Words had run their course, stripped raw and exposed, and now there was only silence. Not the cold kind that, as of recent, graced the room far too often. Not the kind that pierced or burned, judged or waited with bated breath.

It was warm, yearning—yielding, overcome with unspoken forgiveness and fragile relief.

You let the embrace drag, neither of you moved much since wrapping yourself around each other—crumpling into a silent mass of limbs at the base of Regulus’ bed. Legs tangled, your head resting gently against his shoulder, while his hands fidgeted at the hem of your sleeve, softly grazing your skin like he was still convincing himself you were real.

That’s how Regulus found you—curled together on the dorm floor in the brittle afterglow of everything, footsteps muffled against the rug as he returned with a levitating tray in tow.

“Sweet-talked one of the cooks into letting me bring up some dinner,” he said simply, setting the tray down with a little clink of ceramic.

Tea and warm, slightly smushed sandwiches. Your stomach answered for you with a small, unmistakable grumble, and Barty huffed a quiet breath, the edge of a smile curling his lips

“We’re not eating on my bed, though,” Regulus added casually, already flicking his wand to conjure a small cloth on the floor. “I refuse to wake up with crumbs in my sheets.”

A huffed chuckle slipped passed your lips as you peeled yourself away from Barty—the three of you gathering around the tray on the floor, knees bumping, fingers brushing as cups were passed between you.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough, the room had settled into the habitual domesticity it had been deprived of for so long. You sat beside them, watching the way Regulus absently buttered a scone for Barty with extra without being asked, and the way Barty’s long limbs stretched along the rug like he’d never left.

Then the clock near Regulus’ bed—always five minutes too fast—blinked back at you accusingly, and your stomach dropped.

“Shit,” you muttered, pushing your plate away and standing quickly. “I’m gonna be late for my rounds.”

Barty blinked up at you, brow furrowed. “You barely ate.”

You crooked a faint smile, straightening your robes as you shrugged, “Happens more often than it should.”

Regulus was already dusting off his hands, rising with you. “I’ll walk you.”

But as he stepped towards you—because Barty didn’t move. He didn’t rise with you. Didn’t reach for his cup. Just sat there, legs still folded beneath him, gaze lingering on the half-empty cup.

And you saw it. That small flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the way his lips twitched, the way his shoulders curled inward like he was preparing for solitude to stretch across the room again. Before Regulus could reach for the door, you shifted slightly.

“It’s fine, Reg. I can go alone.”

Regulus frowned faintly. “Are you sure?”

You were still paused by the door, looking between them with a glint in your eyes as you spoke, lips twitching up at the corners, “Actually…maybe you can do something else instead.”

Barty’s brows drew together, gaze lifting toward yours. “What?”

A small, soft smile tugged at your lips. “Go get your stuff,” your voice was soft, and yet the words were firm—convicted. “From Avery’s dorm. Bring them back.”

He just blinked up at you, lips slightly parted. “What?”

There was a short pause, holding your sights on him as your voice rung in the room again, in a quiet coaxing sort of tone. “Bring a bit of life back into the room.”

Barty stared up at you, wide-eyed for a moment before his features split into that smile—the one you hadn’t realised you missed so achingly until now. The one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and flashed the faintest edge of his pearly canines.

It was boyish, crooked—painfully him.

Regulus was already flicking his wand, cleaning up the dishes with practised precision. He smoothed the front of his robes with a lazy swipe and looked back at Barty with one raised brow.

“Well?” he said, dryly amused, holding out a hand. “Off we go, then.”

Barty hesitated—just for a breath—then reached up and took it, raising to his feet with an exaggerated groan. His smile didn’t fade; if anything, it threatened to grow, tugging at the corners of his mouth like it was almost too much.

This was the kind of normal he hadn’t let himself believe he could have again.

You were already at the door by the time they stood, hand resting on the knob. You looked back at them both, light from the sconces catching in your lashes, “I’ll see you both at breakfast, yeah?”

They knew who the question was really meant for—still, both nodded. Barty’s smile still pulled at his lips when he spoke, voice slightly rough around the edges, “Of course, Tres.”

─────────

The morning in the Great Hall was already buzzing when Regulus and Barty entered, side by side, voices low and drifting in and out of quiet laughter, no rush in their steps. They strolled in as casually as ever, unhurried in that way reserved for Monday mornings, where they stayed up far too late the night before.

And as they crossed the stone floor and made their way toward the Slytherin table, Barty slung his arm over Regulus’ shoulder like it was it’s rightful place, and Regulus let him, didn’t shift away or shrug him off. Like there hadn’t been a several-week-long silence, like Barty’s seat hadn’t almost collected dust.

They settled into their seats like their routine hadn’t been on hold the entire time, wordlessly.

And as subtle as Regulus tried to be in his instinctive searching scan over the table for you, he struggled to push down the twitch of his brows and the purse of his lips when you were nowhere to be found.

He was already in motion, pouring tea with the same exact precision he always had—no sugar, a large splash of milk—and Barty didn’t even ask before sliding the plate of toast toward himself, claiming a piece already smeared with far too much jam.

For a short while, it was just that. Low murmurs, lazy conversation, quiet clinking of china—Regulus’ eyes shifting to the entrance every so often.

Barty settled in as normal, animated in a way uncalled for so early in the morning, but it wasn’t in that explosive, wild manner that made Regulus roll his eyes and grumble out table manners.

It seemed Regulus’ face, that’s usually so bound ridiculously tight—especially early in the morning—that same face that had carried a near-permanent wrinkle between its brows for the past few weeks, had finally melted away. There was almost a softness in the tilt of his mouth now, in the way he let his eyes flick upwards to Barty every few sentences, like he was still quietly checking to see if this—if they were really back to normal.

Barty was mostly oblivious—all loose smiles and bright eyes—in a way that was warm and welcomed after so long without it.

Though the calm didn’t last very long—the short bark of laughter that left Evan’s lips from further down the table almost sounded involuntary. “Ah, so Junior’s tantrum has ended,” he drawled.

“We were starting to forget what you looked like with a functioning expression.”

Barty’s eyes had already narrowed, a scowl playing on his lips as he loaded up a response when you came bursting through the Great Hall doors in an uncoordinated flurrying mess of steps.

A whirl of robes and wild hair, tie half-formed, shirt collar skewed in the kind of chaos that could only come from having approximately five minutes to get ready after an alarm you’d definitely slept through.

Sleep still in your eyes and panic on your face as you moved, not even acknowledging the curious stares being cast your way as you made a beeline down the aisle.

Regulus, halfway through a sip of tea, froze with the cup midway to his lips. Brows lifting ever so slightly, the soft crease returning between them—in surprise more than anything. Because it’s really not in your nature to be so haphazard—barely awake, practically flying down the length of the Slytherin table.

And you didn’t even greet anyone, didn’t sit in the empty space that’s always reserved for you by Pandora, didn’t even seem to notice it.

Instead, you simply dropped yourself, without ceremony ot grace, in the closest empty space—beside Regulus.

The force of it jolted him slightly in his seat, tea sloshing dangerously close to the brim of his cup. He turned sharply, only to find you already half-collapsed over the table, face buried in your folded arms.

A beat passed. Two.

Then, muffled and grumpy, your voice came out: “Stop looking at me.”

You didn’t need to lift your head to know that there were far too many pairs of eyes burning into your slumped figure. Evan—ever the opportunist, leaned from two seats down the table, grinning wide and wolfish. “Rough encounter with the Whomping Willow, Potter?”

That earned a ripple of laughter down the table, even Regulus pursed his lips in mild amusement—because it was a painfully accurate description of your current state.

All that left you was a groan—one loud and disgruntled. Lifting your head just enough to give Evan the most exhausted glare imaginable, one hand fumbling to fix your mess of a tie with fingers that were clearly not working at full capacity.

“Very funny, Rosie,” you muttered, slumping again, eyes barely open, trying to blink away the fatigue like it physically hurt to keep them up.

No one pressed you for more. Not right away. The attention drifted off like smoke, and conversation resumed—buzzing low, scattered with buttered toast and the occasional clink of silverware.

Almost without thinking, you leaned into him.

Body tipping sideways, sagging softly against his, the curve of your shoulder meeting his arm, your temple brushing his robes. You didn’t even seem to notice you’d done it—leaning into Regulus with a familiarity that bypassed your brain entirely. As though it were the most natural thing in the world to feel the weight of you against his shoulder.

And he let you.

His body shifted slightly, enough to make the contact more comfortable, and his hand—without hesitation—moved from under the table to press warm and careful against your lower back. His fingers moved slowly, drawing lazy circles through the thin fabric of your robes, the motion soothing in a way that required no words.

You talked—well, rambled—about last nights patrol, the absolute mess that your brother and his friends had left behind, the Ravenclaw fourth-year who screamed at you, the way you’d only gotten to bed at four and then slept through your first three alarms. You talked with your face still half-buried in your arms, voice slurring slightly from exhaustion.

“…and I have a bloody headache now,” your rant finished with a huff, barely holding your head up.

Regulus listened quietly, intently—fingers slowing along your spine, and he felt it before he saw it. A pair of silent eyes.

Pandora.

He caught her eyes on him from down the table, brow arched high in silent, pointed curiosity—she didn’t say anything.

Just flickered her eyes from where his hand was frozen on your back, to his face before turning back to her plate. For a moment, he was completely immobile, spine rigid, before his hand jerked slightly before pulling away entirely—guiltily almost, like he’d forgotten himself. He cleared his throat and leaned slightly away, instead pretending to focus on something Dorcas was saying about tomorrow’s Defence class.

The conversation continued around him, fading into the background because, Regulus was never actually listening. He sat still, in that same sharp detached way only a Black could, skin still mildly humming, an awareness of being observed—watched, even if only for a second.

And yet, just as quickly as the tension had prickled across the back of his neck, jas quickly as he’d faded out of the conversation he never really partook in—mind calmed by the quiet sighs from you beside him and the slow rise and fall of your shoulders in their slumped position. Regulus just as quickly tuned back in—at the rough clattering of metal against glass from in front of him.

Of course it was Barty, another serving of toast and jam—well, more like jam with a side of toast at this point—he was using all his might to dig out every last drop of jam and lather it in excess over the wilting slice he held.

There was no attempt to hide the grimace that tugged at his lips as he watched—predictably—crumbs tumble from Barty’s overly enthusiastic bite, scattering across the dark wood of the table with no regard for neatness or basic decency.

He should be used to this. The unnecessarily messy way Barty ate, like he’d been starved his whole life and wasn’t sure when the next meal would be. And though his rattle and bang took him out of his thoughts the visual in front kept him.

Barty—lips shiny with the thick spread of jam, chewing with the satisfaction of someone who knew they were being watched and didn’t particularly care.

“Do you have to be so barbaric?”

He turned to away from Dorcas, mouth still partially full, and—Merlin—used his tongue to swipe across his lip, dragging it slow across the bottom, letting it curve over the top shamelessly to clean up the jam that had smeared there. A small, low noise hummed in his throat, self-satisfied, as he swallowed.

Then, just for good measure, flashed a grin—toothy and smug and boyish, all at once—because he knew. Knew Regulus was watching. Knew exactly what kind of chaos he was causing and how it bothered him.

And Regulus couldn’t not watch.

Even as he schooled his features into a look of distaste, pinched his brows, lips downturned into a frown. Even as he averted his gaze for a fraction of a second, trying (and failing) to pretend he wasn’t looking at the shine, at every movement Barty made—like he wasn’t fixated on the curve of jam-glossed lips, on Barty as he licked the tip of his thumb just to make a show of how unconcerned he was with Regulus' need for order.

He hummed through another rough bite, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What, this?” He waved the toast in the air for emphasis, a seed or two dropping onto the table as he did it.

Regulus actually winced. “It’s seeded, Junior.” Voice almost desperate, “There are literally two jars of seedless jam, but you picked that?”

Barty just shrugged, eyes glinting. He leaned in slightly, elbows on the table, the toast still in hand and his grin only stretching further across his lips—they still glistened, even now, and his words came out a little slower, like he was testing just how far he could push the line before Regulus looked away first.

“Mmm, I quite like the seeds. Gives it character,”

One thing Barty knew very well, was that his friend was stubborn, to a fault—and would not look away. Even as his ears tinged pinker beneath the neat curtain of dark hair, he kept his gaze steady, jaw ticking ever so slightly, mouth pressed thin—

Barty took another bite—slow, loud, seeds and all, jam spilling over the weakly curved edges of the bread, coating his fingers and dropping onto the table below in large dollops.

And, very calmly, Regulus took a long sip of his tea and muttered, “You’re vile,” he was only met with a jam-filled toothy grin from Barty as the bell rang, breaking the moment like a pebble tossed into still water.

The students around them began to gather their things in a flurry of rustling parchment and clinking cutlery. With an abrupt jolt—accompanied by the harsh scrap of the bench against stone you’re up again, panic back in your eyes, fumbling through your bag.

“What’s first—where’s my—shit, I forgot my History—”

“You have a free first,” Regulus said gently, reaching into your bag and pulling out your timetable, placing into back onto the bench. You blinked at him, shoulders sinking as you breathed out what seemed to be all the air in your lungs.

“Oh.”

You stood still for a beat, bench jutting out awkwardly into the walkway and pressing uncomfortably into the back of your knees, collar still partially popped on one side. And as much as Regulus knitted his brows together in a show of sympathy, the corners of his lips couldn’t help but join his brows—curving upwards in to a slight smile.

The smallest of huffed chuckles passed his lips as he took in the rare sight that was you—hair askewed on one side, the fabric lines of your robe indented into your cheek, a frown spread across your lips as you squinted at the mahogany of the table.

Completely and utterly out of sorts, like you’d been caught in a herd of first years.

It was sort of ridiculous, really—how someone usually so immaculately composed, polished to the point of precision, could look this dishevelled. You’re the type to show up early and leave late. Reviewing notes with breakfast, timing every action down to the second with efficiency that would make another head spin.

And now, here you were, half-dressed and fighting sleep while standing, looking like you’d just about survived a skirmish in the Forbidden Forest. It was endearing, in a way Regulus wouldn’t admit to even in the privacy of his room. Alarming, but mostly—just very, very human.

If he spent another minute surveying your disordered form—and though it would be a minute well spent, in his opinion—Regulus was going to be late. But as if on cue, Barty was already making a stand.

Toast hanging from his teeth while he slung his bag over his shoulder, he tilted his head at you, gesturing vaguely with the piece of half-eaten bread still between his fingers. “Alright, Sleeping Beauty. Let’s get your brain to catch up with your body, yeah?”

You groaned quietly in protest but swung your legs recklessly over the bench—Regulus tucking it in neatly behind you while your fingers continued to fruitlessly tug at your collar. Low moans and grumbling complaints about the morning still left your lips when Barty reached for your bag and hoisted it over his shoulder with a faint oof.

“You know,” he muttered as the three of you stepped out into the corridor, “you could keep a small troll in here and still have room left over for a cauldron.”

Regulus didn’t bother masking the smirk that tugged at his lips when you responded. “It’s called being thorough.”

“You’re a hoarder.”

As you approached the stairwell, Regulus left without a word, just a small squeeze of the elbow—turning and disappearing down the hallway before you could even register his absence.

Trudging.

That’s what you were doing back to the dungeons, not gliding like usual, not even walking. Heels scraping despite Barty kindly taking the burdening weight of your ridiculously heavy bag—you still dragged your feet across the stone like it was thick with sludge that prevented you from lifting your feet even for a second.

The journey wasn’t filled with chatter or uncomfortably silent, just quiet in the way you both liked—and for a while, it hung between you like worn-in fabric. Still, he spoke after a moment, flicking his eyes over your slumped figure.

“We could swing by Pomfrey, you know. Get you something for the headache.”

“No,” it was instant, you didn’t even look at him. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t press, just huffed lightly through his nose as he shifted your bag higher on his shoulder. The common room was empty when you reached it, echoing slightly with the soft click of the door closing behind you. You were already peeling off your robe and dropping your things onto the nearest table, sliding into the chair like muscle memory.

His lips turned into a frown. “What are you doing?”

“Revising,” you replied flatly, already pulling your textbook toward you and flipping it open with a sigh. “I didn’t get to last night. Mocks are around the corner.”

Barty stared at you like you'd grown another head.

“Right. Because what your splitting headache needs right now is Winogrand’s Wondrous Water Plants,” he said, snatching the book and reading the title with a flat look before closing it with a soft thud.

A scowl formed on your lips, immediately flinging his hand off the cover and opening it again with a stubborn shove. “I need to make sure I’m prepared. I’m not confident in Herbology.”

He rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. “You’re not confident in sleeping either, apparently.” Hand already closing the book again, you shot him a glare, forcing his palms away from the spine—pointedly straightening the pages, retrieving your quill and ink.

And with that, Barty shut the book again—this time with enough force that it nearly clipped your fingers—before sliding it neatly under his arm. You took a breath through your nose, trying not to snap, knuckles whitening around the edge of the table. Instead of arguing, you reached for your bag and retrieved another textbook.

Barty scoffed, already pulling out his wand. Before you could so much as lift a hand to guard it, the book flew neatly out of your reach and into his other arm.

“You didn’t even see me get my wand out,” he said plainly, brows raised in challenge. “See? You’re in no state to study.”

You glared, lips parting for what would’ve probably been a biting reply, when the common room door slammed shut with a sharp bang behind you—someone else passing through. The sound echoed painfully through your skull and made you wince so visibly that Barty didn’t need another word of argument.

He’d already rounded the table, one hand reaching for yours. “Come on, Potter—up you get.”

You stared at him, hand still outstretched where he’d taken it, frozen for a beat. The lack of sleep, the pressure building in your skull, head still pounding, the heavy weight of your eyes—it all made the idea of continuing this particular fight feel like trudging uphill in wet socks.

So you let him tug you to your feet.

And he didn’t gloat—didn’t smirk or jeer or revel in his victory. Just held your hand loosely as he led you toward the boys’ staircase, your limbs heavy and reluctant, but not resisting.

The room was still, warmed by the late morning sun—fuller now. Robes flung carelessly over the edge of his trunk, boots with socks hanging out them, duvet scrunched in a pile on the left side of his bed—like he’d never left.

You were moving on autopilot now, shoes kicked off, tie discarded onto the desk as you climbed onto the mattress like your bones ached from the effort of being awake. He hadn’t even put down your bag before you were scooting over to one side of the bed, lodging his pillow under your head. The one you insisted was softer, that smelt of him—bergamot and freshly burnt oak wood—and faintly like your shampoo.

There was only the rustle of fabric and soft padding of Barty’s feet towards the bed, your eyes were already slipping shut, lashes fluttering low and breath starting to steady. He didn’t say anything, only moved to sit on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he reached for the duvet and tugged it upwards—though it ended up bunched awkwardly at your knees.

He didn’t fix it. Not yet.

He knew you slept a bit curled. Even now, worn down, your body seemed to be trying to hold itself together in sleep. One arm crooked under your pillow, the other slack between folds of sheets and robes. A furrow between your brows, like your mind hadn’t quite settled. He wanted to smooth it away.

So he did.

With soft, careful fingers—brushing once across your forehead, then pushing gently through your hair, letting his palm rest briefly at the crown of your head. He stayed like that for a while. Quiet—still. Just breathing you in.

And it was all so…normal.

Like he hadn’t spent weeks avoiding the place, storing his stuff elsewhere, sleeping in corners of the castle, other dorms or just not sleeping at all. Like it didn’t all spill out in this room the night before.

Barty tilted his head slightly, letting his gaze drift over your sleeping face—the soft rise and fall of your chest, the slackened line of your lips, the slight twitch of your fingers as your body fell deeper into sleep. Gods, did he want to freeze this, tuck it away—keep the moment still for at least a while. Memorise it—you—in the thousands of ways he already had—because somehow, it still didn’t feel like enough.

And though there was safety in this moment, in the quiet, calm of his room—it still burned in his mind, ripples of it, settling in the pits of his stomach, refusing to be suppressed. The uncertainty, that whatever this was—You, him, Regulus—it had blurred the lines, smudged them beyond repair.

Even how he’s looking at you now, how he’s holding you—fingers carding through your hair that’s splayed across his pillow, it was probably too much, wasn’t his right—not that that ever stopped him before.

So he didn’t move his hand, didn’t pull away despite the heavy weight that pressed beneath his ribs, he just kept brushing his thumb gently against the curve of your head, each motion steady and rhythmic.

Pushing the thoughts aside, telling himself that this was enough, that it would have to be.

─────────

Days were passing, thankfully uneventful. No drama, no tension—no cryptic silences or loaded stares. A comfortable rhythm was set between the three of you, one that hadn’t existed in a while, like things had finally fully settled.

Just long days, early nights, things felt manageable, a bit more solid again—peaceful. The quiet of the late evening air was no longer haunted by Barty’s looming absence or the harshness of Regulus’ indifference. It was nice to stroll around the castle on patrols that felt more like opportunities to enjoy the cool breeze and clear skies, and walks to stretch your legs than actual responsibilities.

Being paired with Regulus was a welcomed rarity, even after hours of watching him woosh around corners blazing after third years, it was still wildly entertaining even as your shift drew to a close.

Rounding the exit of the Faculty Tower, you made your way through the empty corridors with no disturbances—the clock chimed, signalling the end of your patrol just as you crossed the passed the South Wing. It was too tempting, really—the Courtyard bathed in moonlight—you were drifting, veering off towards the open space, padding across the stone before you could stop yourself.

A quick detour never hurt anyone, right?

“Where are you going?”

You could already hear the disapproval in his tone, could clearly envision his crossed arms and chastising gaze. But your feet didn’t want to stop, already angling toward the archway, and your lips were already shaped in a quiet, mendacious: “Nothing.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, already sceptical. "Why on earth are you in the Courtyard?"

You didn’t slow, shrugging as you turned to face him—still pacing, deviating farther away. "There’s a full moon tonight. I want to see it."

He exhaled sharply. "We aren’t allowed in the courtyard during patrols, why would we be after?"

"So stop me, then," you said, a mischievous smile spreading across your lips, brows clocked upwards in challenge as you walked backwards. The was that glimmer in your eyes, of something impish and wild. Tonight rules were feeling like mere suggestions more than anything.

For a moment, Regulus stood his ground beneath the archway, watching as you continued your rebellion into the Courtyard, arms outstretched with a beckoning hand. And Regulus, despite his better judgment and deeply ingrained rule-following tendencies, couldn’t bring himself to deny you. It was the first time you had looked like you in weeks—alive, glowing. The moonlight dancing along your hair, your skin, welcomed, like it belonged there.

Like you belonged there, belong to the moon, to the night—bewitching in a way that even if Regulus was a stronger man, he still would have given in.

He scanned the hall behind him, muttering, "Merlin help me," under his breath as he followed you, and despite the withering look etched across his face, his lips twitched at the corners against his will.

Your grin splits further across your face in almost expected triumph, as he makes his way to your paused position, joining you near the tall tree in the centre. Surrounded by crisp air, clear skies and the moon—hanging low and heavy above you, full and lonely.

Almost too beautiful to look at directly. You tilted your head back, wind whipping some stray strands of hair across your cheek as you admired the skies above.

And Regulus, he never cared much for things like moonlight or stargazing, except for now—he was suddenly grateful to the moon for the scene it painted before him. Finding his eyes bound to you, watching the way your lashes caught the light with each flutter, the moonkissed glimmer of your skin, making his breath halt in his throat.

Like always, Regulus struggled to look away—like he knew he was staring but couldn’t bring himself to stop, and like always, you could feel his eyes on you, art-less and penetrating, and unsubtle in a way he should be embarrassed by.

“It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” you said, eyes still set on the orb above.

There was no response, just the quiet rustle of the leaves behind you, but you didn’t mind. After a beat, you turned to him, shoulders brushing, lips curving at the edges. “Aren’t you glad you came?”

He didn’t shy away from your gaze, If anything, he leaned into it, rolling his eyes with exaggerated patience, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Maybe.”

You bit back a smug grin, watching as he turned toward the sky with a triumphant hum on your tongue. And for a moment you indulged, letting your eyes run along his side profile; the harsh ridges of his nose, the sharp edge of his cheekbones, the mass of dark curls reflecting the light like they were made to shine in that very moment.

Even as you took small, quiet steps backwards, you kept your eyes on him, heels crunching on the grass and fallen leaves until you felt a thick stump beneath your feet.

“Want a closer look?” you asked suddenly. And when you spoke, your voice was much farther away than Regulus remembered, much farther than he’d like. Words leaving before he’d had the chance to follow voice.

He frowned, confused. "What do you mean a closer—”

You just barely caught his eyes, already pivoting on your heel, stepped onto the hard root, gripping the bark and beginning your ascent. The sound of urgent footsteps followed as he rushed forward, standing at the base of the tree, neck craned up to watch you hastily scale the trunk.

If you were closer to the ground, he probably would have been clearer, instead his words sounded faint, whispered and hissed like he was trying to avoid detection—”What are you doing?”

The question hung in the air for a moment, before you decided to pause. Peering over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of his panicked expression, widened eyes and pinched brows. And despite his clear distress, you couldn’t help but smile down at him, palms digging into the rough bark as you spoke.

“I’m getting a closer look," you said flatly, like it was obvious, like it wasn’t completely and utterly insane.

His lips parted as he sucked in a breath, before shutting. And they opened and closed on repeat in shock a few more times as he stared upwards, arms outstretched acting as a makeshift safety net or if he was using his sheer will to bring you back to solid ground, you didn’t know.

It was still entertaining though.

You turned away from him, and pulled yourself further up, tights snagging on the coarse skin of the tree, laddering across your thighs when your foot just missed the groove you’d blindly aimed for. For a moment, he thinks your falling—his entire body stiffening like he was bracing for impact, breath halting in his lungs, fingers grasping desperately at the air to steady you.

Lips parting only to release a stifled yelp.

But you don’t fall, thankfully.

By the graces of the Merlin himself, you somehow catch yourself, and pause—and Regulus only hears a small, “Oof—!”, pass your lips as you readjust your footing, followed what he’s sure is a poorly suppressed giggle.

And when you turn your sights down in him, lips still stretching into the shape of an amused grin, Regulus can only gape at you. Face morphing into an expression of unadulterated distress, and he hissed out sharply, “Be careful!”

Your eyes are still on him, rolling as your fingers search for higher purchase—scaling up to branch that looks far too precarious for his liking. Words becoming more faint the farther up you got.

“Oh, don’t get your wand in a knot, Reg!”

Regulus only pursed his lips, biting back the urge to critique your general disregard for your safety, scold you for even dragging him out here, for acutely raising his blood pressure.

But as you seat yourself far out on the thick branch, flattening out your skirt, you lean forward—head peeking out over your knees in an incline that had his pulse skipping.

You flash him a grin, looking down at him like everything is right with the world, hair whisping over your face, and he visibly softened. Shoulders relaxing, features settling into a mild grimace instead of the pinched tormented expression it held before.

It took a significant amount of self-control for you to keep your lips from stretching further across your face in triumph—having a bird’s eye view of him losing his resolve.

“Coming up?” you teased, feet swinging back and forth, brows wiggling.

He blinked, still frozen in place, voice climbing in pitch, "What!?", brows knit in sheer disbelief.

You would think you’d grown a second head with the way he was looking up at you. But you didn’t say more, didn’t ask again, didn’t beg. No, you simply let your fingers trail over the empty space you’d left beside you, like you’d reserved it just for him.

Eyes like a silent invitation, whispering to him, catching the silver light like a charm had struck them. He hated how easily he folded. How right it felt to fold.

Regulus sighed, muttering curses under his breath as he began to climb. It wasn’t graceful. Not in the slightest. His purchase was unstable, his robe got caught on a branch, and he scraped his hands more than once.

When he finally reached the branch beside you and sat down, it wobbled ominously beneath your combined weight. He stiffened in an instant, arms out and braced like the branch might collapse at any second.

"Settle down," already biting back a grin. "It’ll hold.” you said, in that self assured way that made him want to roll his eyes. Your sights already set on the skies again, missing the withering, narrowed look Regulus shot your way, still, he leaned back slightly against the tree trunk after a few cautious seconds.

Slowly relaxing.

You both stared up at the sky, moonlight filtering through the branches above you. The breeze played gently through the leaves. When your sharp gasp reached his ears, and he was on edge again until you spoke.

"Did you see that?!"

"See what?!" he hissed, already half-rising with frantic eyes.

"I think it was a hippogriff," you whispered, pointing. He followed your gaze and let out a quiet breath as the shadow of the creature moved across the sky. A few more minutes passed in a companionable silence. You glanced over at Regulus and noticed the small scrapes well hidden by the dark stain of moss and muck covering his hands.

Without a word, you turned sideways, swinging your leg over the other side of the branch and leaning forward to take his hands gently in yours. As you shuffled over, he tensed up with each quake and jolt of the branch beneath you, wordlessly, you ignore his dramatics until you’re close enough to pull his hand off of his lap.

"Gimme," you murmured.

Regulus just watched silently as you focused, feeling the warmth of your skin mix with the soft radiating hum of magic beneath your fingertips—rolling over his palm in gentle waves as the scratches and scuffs healed.

With a sharp eye, you examined your work, holding his hand with a tender touch he still wasn’t used to, breaking the silence with a quiet mumble, “Still waiting for you to teach me how to do that,”

It broke your concentration slightly, had you lips curling at the corners as you hummed back in a tone that could only mean patience as you moved onto the next hand. And when you found a set of short thin scratches lining his fingers, a series of tuts left your lips.

"You were the one telling me to be careful," you added with a smirk.

He gave a scoff of offence, almost pulling his hand out of your grasp to cross them over his chest. "Well, sorry I’m not part monkey.” he said with a roll of his eyes, “When have I ever needed to climb a tree before tonight?"

You barked out a laugh, head tipping back slightly. "You mean to tell me you've never climbed a tree before? Not even in the summer?"

Regulus was already shaking his head before you could finish. Watching your face as you gave his hand another once over, a satisfied smile gracing your lips. But as he spoke, you didn’t relinquish your hold, fiddling with his fingers, running yours over his knuckles, stretching and pulling at the limbs.

“Never went outside much, burnt too easily. Besides my parents wanted to keep a close eye on me.”

You tilted your head slightly, a soft hum slipping from your lips, tracing idle patterns into his palm.

"How are you so good at it, then?"

"James and I used to climb anything and everything. He'd always chicken out halfway, and I'd just keep going.” You paused for a moment, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you continued, corners curving into a smile, “It was like…like flying before I had a broom."

Regulus watched you carefully, “Bet he hated that.”

“Oh, ‘course he did,” you smirked, leaning back on your hands, a huffed chuckle leaving you as your eyes scanned his figure, “Made him livid.”

─────────

The library was nearly silent save for the occasional flip of parchment or quiet shuffling of books slotting themselves onto the shelves. The early morning’s sun just about drapsing throught the window, illuminating the floating dust and casting the perfect light over your desk.

You’d been there since before the sun had fully risen—an untouched mug of gone-cold tea now well out of your reach, overshadowed by the ever-growing wall of open textbooks forming a around you.

All but caged by a fortress of volume after volume, tome after tome of parchment.

It was supposed to be a Saturday. One free of tutoring, meetings, Head-girl duties. But with the way NEWT mocks loomed over you, you couldn’t bring yourself to ignore it—to relent to the cries of your bones and stay in the warmth of your bed.

No matter how tempting.

For some reason you couldn’t quite shaken the restlessness from the week. So instead of sleeping in like the rest of the castle, you’d woken up at the ungodly crack of dawn, and claimed a corner table in the library and buried yourself in notes.

Time was passing relatively fast—students filtering in after the breakfast hour was finally up. And you’d become thankful of the warm light the sun was casting onto you, allowing you to enjoy the last whisps of the autumn sun despite being stuck in the castle. You’d built up a steady rhythm, reading through chapters, note-taking, practise questions.

It wasn’t until a soft thud sounded near the edge of your table that you noticed a figure standing on the other side. For a while, you ignore it—each time it moved a seat closer incrementally, almost like clock work.

Every thirty minutes or so until it was sat one seat across from you, casting a small shadow over your textbook.

Your lips pursed as the gentle, rhythmic tapping of feet sounded in front of you, and you made no efforts to disguise your fed up huff as your concentration broke—dropping your quill into the pot as you finally looked to see who couldn’t possibly find another seat in the Library.

Barty.

You swallowed the reprimand that was ready on your tongue. And Barty wasn’t looking at you, not exactly anyway.

He was sitting, foot jumping in that same pattern over and over, legs sprawled out in that familiar, carelessly deliberate way of his—eyes darting around the room like he was trying to avoid your line of sight, and somehow still watching from his peripherals.

You shook your head as you turned back to your books, lips fighting to curve a the corners.

Minutes ticked on.

A stack of fresh notes joined your pile. Barty occasionally tilted his head, tracking the movement of your quill or reading a stray heading upside down. He said nothing as he watched you underline something in Winogrand’s Wondrous Water Plants for what must’ve been the fifth time. Even leaning back at one point, arms crossed, observing you like you were the subject of a particularly strange case study.

Both sitting in comfortable silence, while the sun made its way across the room, shifting from where it had been warming you for hours. You ignored the way your hand was beginning to cramp and the way your stomach was grumbling in hunger, when he moved again.

Leaning forward suddenly, fingers that had been drumming against the wood coming to a halt. "Alright. That’s it.”

You paused, brows raised. "What?"

"It’s hours. This is inhumane. You haven’t blinked since breakfast."

"Because I’m revising," you said flatly, lifting your quill like a threat.

"And I’m thrilled for you, really, I am." He stood, walking around to your side of the table and planting his palms on your book as he leaned back. “But you haven’t had a sip of water in hours and I’m taking it upon myself to intervene.”

You squinted at him, peeling his fingers off the edges and taking it into the safety of your grasp. “I have to finish this section.”

"You don’t, actually. Not today. You can miss a paragraph or twelve without Hogwarts collapsing.” Barty was quick and sly when he wanted, pushing passed the blockage of paper you’d encaged yourself in and plonking himself gracelessly onto your desk.

"Junior—"

He was already closing the book in front of you. "Nope. No more Latin-rooted names of aquatic plants. No more tiny scribbles in the margins that even a magnifying glass wouldn’t help with. I’m invoking emergency intervention."

Before you could protest again, one by one the stack of books on your desk were whipping past you and showing themselves to the shelves behind you. Your lips were still parted, the start a sentence hanging silently in the air when you turned to him—shoulders sinking slightly in defeat.

And he just beamed at you, that victorious shit-eating grin that flashed almost all 32 of his pearly whites, before he hopped off of the desk with a pip in his step, taking your bag that was hanging off your chair and roughly stuffing your parchment into it.

You let your head fall against the back of the chair with a groan. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, still you love me.” He offered his hand with flair and dramatics, head bowed—one hand behind his back and a makeshift curtsey. You looked at him for a long moment, debating when he spoke again.

“Come on. There’s sun outside. Grass. Water.” You still hadn’t budged at any of his bribing suggestions and his voice dipped lower into honeyed coaxing tone. “There’s a bed…teacakes…Regulus…”

He was wiggling his fingers insistently until you took his hand and stood—the loud creak from the chair as you shifted was answer enough. And Barty only barely held in a bark of laughter as you dragged yourself to a stand.

Trailing behind Barty and out of the library—shoulders brushing with each trudge through the castle. Bag slung half-heartedly over your shoulder, grumbling beneath your breath about how much work you’ll have to catch up on, how crumbled your notes are because of him.

Barty just hummed along in agreement, just happy to have gotten you up and out of that rickety chair and back into civilisation.

Corner after corner, you found yourself standing at the door of the dorm, and he pushed open the door with a dramatic flourish, as if unveiling a grand retreat rather than the partially organised mess of shared books, robes half-draped over chairs, and a faint lingering smell of peppermint.

“Reg is tutoring,” he said over his shoulder, already heading for his desk. “So you’re stuck **with me for now, Tres.”

You only muttered back the pattern of his words in a higher, mimicking tone pitch, eyes darting towards the nearby armchair where he stood before drifting to his bed, half-made, pyjamas scrunched at the bottom, pillows astray by the headboard. You didn’t sit. Not yet.

And Barty only scoffed a laugh at your parroting, already digging roughly through the drawer of his desk, like a goblin seeking treasure.

“Got some things from Honeydukes,” he said, tone light. “You can thank me later.”

Clearly, his words went right over your head, because he was met with silence, the room filling with the sound of plastic and paper rubbing against each other as he rummaged. You wandered to the side of the bed, the back of your knees pressing against the edge of the mattress while you recited the effects of Dittany in your head.

After a few moments of rocking on your heels you broke your silence, “I should finish that chapter.”

He didn’t even look up, “You’re being uptight again.” The rummaging paused for a moment, and you could almost hear the sneer on his lips when he finished.

“I don’t know why you try so hard to be the smarter Potter.”

It’s almost like his goal was to irritate you today, the second interrupted study session of the week, the insinuation that was just as ludicrous as it sounded, like it you were competing with James of all people—you were—like he was competition at all—he definitely is.

The scoff was left your lips in a rush, like it’s one purpose was to be heard and debunk whatever Barty was implying. And your face scrunched with displease as you huffed, “I needn’t go to any particular lengths to beat my bonehead of a brother.”

There was another short moment of quiet before the rustling continued and you flopped onto the bed in partial disbelief and minor defeat. Because you couldn’t go back to studying now, not after that, not when it would make you look like a try-hard, not when it would prove Barty right.

You let your knees dangle off the edge of the bed, one shoe tossed towards where Barty still stood hunched over his desk, it didn’t hit him—although if it had, you’d have no objections.

The bedding relaxed around your form, fingers loosely laced on your stomach, feet swinging idly when the sound of several small clunks filled the room. When you craned your neck at the sound, it only continued as you sat yourself up onto your elbows—you found yourself looking at Barty’s body still crooked over the desk.

But now, his hips pressed awkwardly to the side of the open drawer trying to stop the spillage—boxes upon boxes of unopened chocolate frogs, practically leaping their way out and onto the stone floor.

“What all that?” you asked, peering toward the open drawer. “Are those…are those Chocolate Frogs I got you?!”

His body was as stiff for a fraction of a second before he began to scramble, stuffing the draw with the ones that were cliffing an exit—frantically dropping to the floor. Your eyes widened and your voice pitch in shock, he’d been stashing each ‘Congratulations’ frog.

“Junior—! You’ve been hoarding them?! Did you miss the edible memo?”

Even as he tried to stuff them roughly back into the draw, it refused to close—brimming with the gold and navy packages that seemed eager to escape. He hissed out his defence, “Not all ****of them!”

After a few more desperately aggressive and forceful slams, the drawer finally submitted, and his shoulders slumped in relief before he turned to meet your scandalised gaze. More justifications just seemed to spill out of his lips.

“They’re not for eating anyway,” he said quickly. “They’re—trophies.”

You all but gaped at him, brows pinching slightly in confusion.

“I—Well-”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he added loftily, like the idea of sentimental sweets was some noble calling. Before you could respond, he tossed a liquorice wand at you—it hit your stomach with a soft thump.

If the red tint that peeked out from beneath the collar of his top wasn’t enough indication the conversation was over, the way he whizzed around the bed, suddenly very interested in filling the room with anything but your voices, already fiddling with the record player in the corner.

He nudged the needle, adjusted the volume, and stood back with a proud little nod. No music yet, but his foot was already tapping in anticipation, like he could hear the melody before it started.

“Did you pick a song yet?” you asked.

“I’m building suspense,” he said, glancing at you over his shoulder.

You stayed where you were on the bed, still half-propped on your elbows, gaze drifting as he moved lazily about the room. The record finally crackled to life as he shuffled over in mismatched socks, liquorice wand hanging limp from his lips when flopped onto the bed beside you, sideways and upside-down, head hanging briefly off the side before twisting to look at you with a dramatic sigh.

“Why do you look like—like, physically tense. You need to un-clench before your bones fuse.”

“I am relaxed,” you replied flatly, though your spine did seem to ease into the mattress just a little more.

Barty snorted and lifted his wand with a casual flick, pointing it toward the ceiling above his bed. With a quiet swish, the wood-panelled canopy shimmered, then faded—revealing an illusion of the sky above, charmed just like the one in the Great Hall. The same light you’d both admired in the courtyard now glowed faintly overhead, with drifting clouds and a sun-tinged sky.

You blinked up at it.

“When did you learn to do that?” you asked, a little awed.

He smirked, not even trying to hide how pleased he was with himself. “Read it in Advanced Illusionary Theory. It was either that or a spell that makes your shoes bark. You’re welcome.”

“You chose correctly.”

“Obviously.”

The bed dipped slightly as he shifted, arm sliding behind his head, elbow grazing yours, knees resting over his where they hung loosely over the mattress edge. For a while you chattered mindlessly, both staring up at the enchanted sky, munching on sweet after sweet. Basking in a soft breeze wasn’t really there, but the ceiling gave the illusion of it anyway—clouds drifting, golden light dimming.

“I’m going to miss the hours of sunlight this winter.” you murmured, not really expecting a reply.

“Mhm.”

You turned your head to glance at him, wand spinning between his hands, feet tapping the air occasionally as he stared upwards.

He must have felt your gaze, because his eyes flickered to you—lazily from your face to where your hair spilled over the pillow between you, before they moved back to the ceiling. And without thinking, his fingers reached out and combed over a few strands, slow and unhurried.

Then brushed your temple, down toward the ends near your collarbone, and back up to your scalp moving in soft and rhythmic strokes.

You didn’t stop him.

Instead, you let your head roll slightly closer, just enough that your brows nearly touched. The air around you warm with magic, music spinning in the corner, the scent of honeyed sheets and sweet liquorice lingering between the blanket and him—the gap between you just barely a slither.

His fingers slowed where they threaded through your hair, but didn’t stop. You shifted slightly on the pillow, fingers still thrumming lightly against you stomach when you turned your face toward him.

Maybe you shouldn’t have.

Because he was already looking at you.

You almost flinched at the sudden eye contact, brows instantly drawing together at his expression. There was something in his eyes, almost solemn, like he didn’t want to be where he was and yet couldn’t bring himself to leave—a sort of resignation that was uncalled for, that made your lips fall limp into a frown, made your comfortable tapping halt abruptly.

Though neither of your looked away. Just held each others gaze, limbs still knotted, time suspended in several drawn-out moments of silence.

Until you cracked.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

It was meant to be a simple question, but for some reason it came out like an accusation, taut and defensive. Maybe it was the way the pits of your stomach were bubbling uncomfortably, that force your tone to shape something harsher than you’d have like—or that fact that you felt suddenly restless, picking at the fabric of your shirt.

For a moment, Barty’s hand froze in your hair, his thumb paused on your hairline before it continued its’ soft, soothing motion.

Still your face didn’t relax—if anything it wound tighter, creases hardening between your brows as he muttered.

“No reason.”

It was so dismissive, so painfully and obviously a lie, you weren’t even sure why he bothered saying anything at all. You were almost scowling now, the frown on your lips cemented deeper into your face, edged with something harder, meaner. You blinked at him, like you were giving him the opportunity to try again, to choose a different answer.

To tell the truth.

Still, you were met with silence, and that same sobering expression on his face that made your throat dry.

“Barty. You’re an awful liar.”

Your voice was shockingly serious, and your words lacked the lightness you weren’t sure they were meant to reflect. The sheets rustle slightly beneath you and his hand slipped from your hair as you shifted away from him, staring at him head on.

Even the way you moved away from him, it had only an inch, a matter of millimetres—and yet it felt oddly like a punch in the gut to him—he remained quiet, didn’t shy away from your scrutinising gaze. He watched, with his lips pursed together tightly, feeling the absence of your warmth from his side and fingertips—silently wishing to himself that your face would change, wishing he could find the words.

Truly, Barty hated that expression, the way your eyes were panicked and how you said his name—lacking everything that made it feel like it meant anything. Hated how he could feel the stress radiating off of you in harsh waves as if his silence was eating you up from the inside, hated how he could feel your breathing shallow and how stiff your body was, like you were bracing for impact or preparing to flee.

Hated how he was the cause.

Again.

“Spit it out.”

It was more of a plea than a demand, it lacked the bass it needed.

Even as he stared at you, wishing he’d looked away before so he didn’t have to witness the slight fear building behind your eyes like you’d done something wrong, wishing he could save himself the regret of what his next actions were likely going to cause.

Part of him wanted to shrink under the intensity of your gaze—retreat—but he knew you weren’t going to give up or let it go, it wasn’t in your nature. He stayed quiet for another moment, lips parting as he audibly sucked in a sharp breath.

“What is…this—?”

It’s like he was silently motioning to you, between you and your semi-tangled forms.

You knew what he meant, what he was referring to. The way you drifted together helplessly, too comfortable with your bodies intertwined—and you knew how he felt about you, how situations like this blurred the lines even more than they already were.

Crossed them, actually.

Lines that had yet to actually be set, lines that determined whether this was okay, lines that determined what this was.

He didn’t need to ask it again, or reiterate the question—but he did anyway. Not that you had an answer for him.

“What are we?”

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Your lips suddenly felt much heavier, weighed down. His words resigned you to simply blinking at him, no bark or bite left as your shoulders sagged. Folding in on yourself like every molecule of air had frozen in your lungs, no inhaling, no exhaling—even if you could breathe, you were sure the air would be completely unyielding to your will.

What exactly were you meant to say?

‘I don’t know’ definitely was not an appropriate answer. Were you meant to dismiss it, say you’ll ‘figure it out’ like Regulus had the first time?

Although you weren’t trapped, by any physical means at least—your body wasn’t moving as fast as you wanted. Like the mattress beneath you had become quicksand, softening around you, absorbing each move you made. And he could feel them, you—moving in slow motion, untangling your limbs with painstaking hesitance.

Barty used your silence to say more, to say what he wanted because you asked, because the ball was already rolling—spiralling down the hill, and he couldn’t possibly make it any worse.

So he moved.

Closer—shifting onto his side, matching the form of your sinking figure.

Just there.

A mere breaths length away. So close in-fact that the small specks of green in his eyes were visible, looking down at you as he spoke, voice low and laced with what you could only name as resignation.

“You don’t know.”

It’s like he stole the words you hadn’t dared to say right off your tongue. And frankly, there wasn’t much use in denying it—trying to water down reality. Because he was right, you didn’t know what this was and there was no amount of silence that would change that.

Still, he hadn’t stopped looking at you, watching you, frozen in his bed, sinking into his sheets. Brows pinched while your eyes darted across his face as he spoke again.

“Does it matter? Gods, I hope it doesn’t.”

That made you pause, made your sluggish attempt at an exit come to end.

You’d finally swallowed the lump in your throat, the word was barely even there—a poor excuse for speech, a pathetic use of your vocal chords—only just making it into the slither of space between you.

“Why?”

The seconds churned like days could pass between them. And the room was quiet for a moment, and then another and another, each passing slower than the last. Almost as if he was waiting for something, even when his lips parted and you could have sworn he was going to speak—end the anguish his silence inflicted, he waited some more.

Just to see if it would pass.

Barty was sure he should have stayed quiet, avoided the answer that rung noisily around in his skull like a bell over and over, because this really wasn’t the right time, or place, or—

“Because I want to kiss you.”

Oh.

Oh.

Each word he breathed seemed to travel slow motion, loitering in the space between you—curling its ways into your mind and echoed.

Neither of you dared to take a single breath, not yet. Not when he was so close, to you, to your lips—to taking everything he wanted, whether it was his to take or not.

You hardly noticed the gap between you getting smaller and smaller, really you couldn’t fathom focusing on anything but him even if your life depended on it—with the way your heart thundered beneath your ribcage, drowning out the music that still crackled in the corner of the room was not nearly as distracting as the way Barty looked at you.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flicking down to your lips just the once, like he was scared of it. Like that singular glance would ruin him, like he was resigning himself to an inescapable fate—drinking in their glisten and stain, coloured by the candied wand.

And it’s not like you’d never kissed before.

You had—once, it was nothing serious, far from it. Fuelled by fire-whiskey, messy and quick, your teeth had knocked into each other’s; a drunken dare that neither of your prides were able to ignore. That kiss didn’t count, it was long forgotten, meaningless.

This one?

This one did—it meant everything to Barty. Because he didn’t care if he had the right to anymore.

Even then Barty didn’t rush it, he wouldn’t dare. He savoured the blurred moment like he’d never get the chance to be this close again, each touch was slow and tentative—fingertips against your cheek, brushed tips of noses, his breath fanning across your lips.

It was a small kiss.

Just the simple press of his lips to yours—the warmth of his hand trailing down to cradle your jaw. No theatrics, no excessive boldness that might take away from the moment. From you and him and the soft, pillowy feeling of your lips.

A quiet sigh of contentment passed through his nose as he pressed closer, relaxed into you, pushed his lips against yours as if they’d supply him oxygen.

It wasn’t long before you pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, heartbeats ringing in your ears. Even for the short fraction, all Barty can do was look, watch, marvel at you like looking is drinking and he’s desperately parched.

Those mere seconds where your lips were but a breath apart, seemed torturous. His brows wound tightly together, high on his forehead, lips wet, irises swallowed almost entirely by the darkness of his pupils.

A chase had begun.

His blood practically vibrated in his veins, the surface of his skin set alight from this simple touch alone—like he’d been given the smallest taste of salvation and now nothing less would suffice.

He barely gave his lips time to shape your name before they found yours again, refreshing your mind of their honeyed taste before it even had time to settle. You found yourself reeling, palm pressed firmly against his chest, fingers curling in on themselves, tugging, pulling him in closer as if your bodies weren’t already flush.

Kisses slipped away from your lips—your skin burned and hummed under the trail he began across your throat. It was no longer soft and timid; no—it was anything but. Feverish and indulgent and all Barty knew how to be.

Like the air had condensed and buzzed with desire.

Each touch felt more like praise than the last as your hands found their way to tangle into the soft tufts of his hair. There was no stopping now. When he brought his lips back to yours; the palms of his hands hot against your waist, greedy and eager, as he pulled your lip between his teeth.

That earned him a sound, one not entirely foreign, because it was your voice and his name. But it wasn’t like normal, laced with playful exasperation or something of the sort, and it certainly was nothing like the way you said it last.

It was soft and breathy and moaned out in a gasp, and his head all but spun at the way it sounded on your lips. For a moment Barty couldn’t help but think how selfish Regulus was for keeping this to himself. It was all messy devotion—like the taste of your lips was the only thing keeping him sane.

The drag of your fingertips across the nape of his neck forced a groan to slip past his lips and onto yours—Barty was sure he’d died and had gone to heaven, willingly helpless to the push and pull, the endless tide of your lips that kept him from something as sweet as air.

You were entirely caught up in the moment, time had melted away with the tingle of your lips, the way he smiled against them and the dizzying hum beneath your ribs.

It was bliss that all came crashing down with a sharp, jarring knock at the door.

Loud. Impatient. Unfriendly.

Barty’s head whipped toward the sound, and you both froze, limbs still tangled, breaths still uneven. His hands firmly pushed into the fabric of your clothes, lips flushed and hair askew—a scene with only one explanation.

Another knock—louder this time. Followed by a very familiar voice.

“Barty. Open the door.”

it took all my might not to scrap this entire fic...lol i hate this

Comfortability is weird and finnicky thing—it comes easy for some, natural even, and incomprehensibly harder for other. A day struggle in some cases.

A day struggle in your case.

One you thought you’d moved past after years and years of turmoil. But it didn’t take so much as as a single intrusive thought—one of innocent origin, one of admiration—for you to feel almost back at square one.

Reigniting a flame that you thought was almost snuffed out.

To be comfortable in your own skin—accepting that this is what will house you until the day you die. And you told yourself you were grateful for it, it kept all your muscles and organs in place, allowed you to touch things—gave you access to all the sensations of the world. And you tried not be harsh with it, with yourself—treating it with kindest and a gentle hand.

Because really it wasn’t its fault, the blame didn’t reside with your skin—an innocent entity in the cruel and fiery game your mind played on you—and Gods did the fire hurt?

Burning low at first, small—unimportant. A matchstick. Then bigger. Hotter. All-consuming.

Spreading like wildfire, uncontrollable and bruttish in nature.

Trampling it’s way into everything you did, spilling like oil—staining, tainting, tarnishing, every thought in its wake.

Honestly, it’s just unfair. How sick you feel—ashamed of your own thoughts, ashamed of being in your body—the way your brain does all sorts of gymnastics, a mirage of hops, skips, leaps, and jumps to get you to conclude on one thing. You’re not enough.

Comparison kills happiness.

It was never your intention to compare, it was harmless admiration—adoration. And yet, in an instant, that invasive creeping thought slid into your brain, and suddenly you couldn’t take your eyes off of Sirius.

Bold, beautiful Sirius—craved by Aphrodite herself, licked by the goddess of all that is love and beauty and grace. So effortless in the way he captures your eye—even just his eyes—seemingly endless pools of silver and grey with specks of blue that you just wanted to drown in, lashes long and fluttering with every easy affectionate word on his lips.

And then there was Remus, you could speak at great length about how much you adored Remus. He was a sight to behold, skin sunkissed, warm and freckled—you’d spent hours tracing over them and his scars. Convinced that the inside of your skull was engraved with a map—a constellation of his skin.

His voice, soft and steady, had this devastating way of making you feel like the most important person in the world. He listened like the stars might stop shining if he didn’t.

And beside them—what were you?

A flickering candle. Wax melting too fast. Skin too tight. Thoughts too loud.

You hadn’t realised how long you were staring at Sirius—eyes locked on the smooth, pale expanse of his stomach, the subtle ridges of his ribs, rising and falling with each breath. Water clung to him in beads, glinting in the low light like glass shards. You tracked a droplet as it slid from his chest, curved past the hollow of his waist, and disappeared beneath the towel slung lazily around his hips.

He was effortless. Unthinking. Just existing in his skin like it had never betrayed him. Like it had always belonged.

You didn’t notice the smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Didn’t notice the way his eyes kept flicking over, catching you in the reflection of the mirror, until he spoke—words nearly lost beneath the hum of the blowdryer.

“If you keep staring at me like that, love, you’ll burn a hole right through me.”

You blinked at him, instantly averting your gaze as heat crept up the base of your neck—Remus snickered slightly under his breath at your reaction, peering over the top of his book from his lounged position beside you. Long limbs tangled with yours.

And your lips parted, to protest—shyly deny that you’d be staring, or more that you’d be caught. But they fell dead on your tongue, Sirius’ lips splitting into a wider grin at your poor attempt to be non-chalant.

Voice light and playful as it filled the room “No, no, don’t stop on my account—I love being a distraction,”

It had your lips quirking up slightly, mumbling begrudge under your breath, before turning back to your phone. You were helpless to it, using every braincell to not let your eyes travel back to Sirius’ sculpted form.

Fingers subconsciously picking at the skin around your thumb, bad habit. They always arose when your brain was full, allowing you to lose yourself in the endless sea of thoughts.

Sirius was touchy, generous with his affection—having been starved of it so long, he’d quickly become some sort of an addict. Constantly itching to close to one of you, usually—typically, Remus.

And he would revel in the contact, allow Sirius to curl up onto him like a cat seeking warmth at all times. Completely accustom to the way Sirius would all but try live in his skin with him—his hands, arms, thighs, head—something in constant contact with Remus.

Not to say you didn’t like touch, didn’t want to bask in his attention and generous comfort. But right now?

Right now your skin was already crawling, feeling prickly and too much. So when Sirius came to the bed, slotting himself between your legs, head resting over your belly button—automatically sighing into your warmth, you fought the urge to freeze. His smell drifting up to you, vivid and bright post—shower, a mix of a warm sandalwood and the light freshness of the shampoo you shared.

Really you wanted to tangle your fingers into his hair, let them be engulfed by soft mass of curls—but something was stopping you. Keeping your hands trapped by your sides.

Sirius had already started a conversation with Remus, effectively distracting him from the book he’d been reading. And you heard it plop by the pillow you rested on—you wanted to turn your head, engage in the small chatter but you couldn’t.

Couldn’t focus on anything other than the mindless way Sirius’ fingertips trailed up and down the sides of your thighs—dragging against the seam of your bottoms—up and down and up again. It was a completely innocent, ordinary touch. But today it was too much, too taxing, too dangerous.

You were all but petrified in place, lying still beneath him, breathing almost shallow—trying to act normal, trying to act like your mind wasn’t spiralling with each skim of his fingers.

Finally cracking when Sirius reached under the hem of your shirt—he hadn’t made direct contact with your skin just yet—still fiddling with your pockets and belt loops, trailing his hands over the curves of your hips.

Until he almost brushed against your skin—shirt hitching up to expose you. His voice rumbling and vibrating lowly against your body when you moved.

The urgency in your movement was noticeable—eyes wide and shaking slightly as you grabbed his hands. The touch was thankfully light. Sirius looked away from Remus, who also silenced along with your action.

The quiet barely hung for a moment before you forced your lips to curve into a sheepish smile—eyes still stuck on Sirius’. You were quick to interlace your fingers with his, letting them rest on the fabric of your stomach above his head—and his brows were quirked up in mild curiousity. The words slipped out easy with a small huffed laugh, “I’m ticklish, Siri,”

Maybe that wasn’t the best excuse.

Because the glimmer in Sirius’ eyes as the final syllable left your lips was undeniably mischief—lips splitting into a small grin as he raised his head, chin pressing into your stomach.

“…Ticklish, eh?”

Your lips dropped immediately—expression shockingly grave as you felt his hands try to tug out of your interlinked hold. It was obvious what he wanted them for—and there was no way you could let that happen—let his hands wander and travel, even if it was in the name of harmless mischief.

Couldn’t let his fingers feel the rough outline of the scars that smeared themselves across your skin.

Thankfully, Remus came to your rescue as your struggled to keep Sirius’ hands in yours and away from your stomach in your vulnerable position—squirming coming to a stop when his voice sounds beside you.

“Stop torturing her with the threat of tickling, Pads”

Your pulse was ringing in your ears as he relented—casually winking at you before he rested his head back on your stomach, thumbs rubbing over skin of your palm as he picked up his conversation with Remus like normal.

And though it took a short while for your heart to settle, the itching pressure clearly had no intention of dissipating—the longer you spent connected with Sirius, each shift on his face against the fabric that covered your stomach had it churning.

Because what if he could feel them, what if the texture was clear even through your shirt, what if he recoiled away from you at the discover, the exposure of what you likely wouldn’t be able to hide for much longer.

You’d narrowly escaped one instance, thanks to Remus, but what of next time—that’s a river you’ll have to cross when you’re in front of it. The longer you stay in your head, the more suspicious you’ll look, but you can’t help it—focusing all your energy on ignoring the way your hands want to shake in Sirius’.

When you turn your head, pushing the darker, insecure thoughts into the back of your mind—you find Remus’ gaze on you, watching you intently with a look you couldn’t quite read. It was likely nothing—just watching, and yet even as you forced your lips curled into a shy smile for him, you struggled to swallow as he looked away.

Another day.

Another hard one.

Harder than the last few, more distressing, more distracting and for the first time in a long time, you found yourself struggling to look in the mirror.

At least not without your hands instictively running over the roughened skin with a unkind, critical eye—frown etching itself onto your lips as your chest tightened. You’d been avoiding the bathroom mirror all day.

But it was that time now.

Time to shower, time to spend time with your body, time to wash and rub, to cleanse your skin.

Not a particularly difficult task—you’d done it thousands of times.

But right now, stripping bare was the hardest obstacle ever—because that would been you’d have to see them—have to touch them over and over and over, no barrier of fabric to disguise the texture.

And you felt sick, as your top hit the bathroom floor with a dull thud. Gaze locked onto the floor, stuggling to look at the skin, at the mirror, at yourself. So you didn’t.

Turning swiftly on your heel—focusing your mind on the sound of running water, using a loofah to rub over the skin to avoid physical contact with it. But after some time, you inevitably found your way back. Lathering soap over the area with vigour, scrubbing harder and harder—aggressively—as if to remove it entirely. Rid yourself of the unforgiving texture and darkened colour that dorned your skin in a way that made your insides revolt.

Of course it wouldn’t come off, wouldn’t release you from its tormenting shackles, it stayed. Relentless. A stubborn, inescapable, ugly reminder, and the surface of your skin burned under your excessive friction—itching and prickling as you continued to scrub away at it.

The water pressure suddenly wasn’t enough, wouldn’t clean you how you needed and you broke.

A choked sob built in your throat, clawing its way out when you hand dropped to your side. Head hanging low as your eyes stung, tears mixing with the water cascading over your bare form. You let out a shaky breath, lungs shuddering with the next inhale—clamping your hand over your mouth as another sob threatened to errupt into the bathroom.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you willed everything everything—turning and tipping your head back to rinse it away—the lathered soap, your thoughts, the scars. Even as your tears subsided, the aching pressure beneath your ribs was still going strong—now accompanied with a growing tension headache and a pair of dry, bloodshot eyes.

Stepping out of the shower, you kept your eyes shut as your dried—back to the mirror, just barely patting over the, now sore, expanse of skin. Padding your way into the bedroom as quietly as possible, tugging on extra layers.

A vest, a tshirt, a jumper.

You hung your towel over the heater to dry, and curled into the bed—curled into yourself, trying to sink into mattress. Distract yourself for the too loud thoughts that spun in your head.

It was maybe an hour of tossing and turning, skin stinging under the layers of fabric—when you finally relented, throat sore and dry—the duvet was thrown off haphazardly, and you exited the room. Making your way into the kitchen, trying to attract as little attention as possible as your poured a tall glass of water.

But to your misfortune, both Remus and Sirius padded into the kitchen at the minimal sound of your movement. Sirius automatically resting his head on the curve of your shoulder as you sipped quietly.

“Missed you, love. Have a good shower?”

You hummed, head still bowed as Sirius audibly breathed you in, planting a gentle kiss to the curve of your jaw when you murmured. “Mmhm, was very relaxing,”

It was a lie, a simple but necessary one you’d thought.

Though ultimately useless, because the second you turned around to press the kettle on and Remus caught a glimpse of your face, his brows furrowed and he leaned into you. On instinct you shied away slightly, keeping your eyes on the marble of the counter and avoiding his perceptive gaze.

He slid closer to you—pressing his back into the counter as you turned to open the cupboard, “You okay, dove?”

The mug hit connected to the marble with a small clink, and you held back the sigh the bubbled in your chest—pushed down the urge to shrug Sirius’ touch off of you when you hummed back in response.

Remus dipped his head down to get a closer look while you prepared your tea, skin around your eyes puffed, whites of your eyes still reddened. A frown worked it’s way onto Remus’ lips, but before he could ask what the matter was, your voice reached his ears, light and quiet—joining the low rumbling of water in the kettle.

“Would you like one?”

It was a simple and open question, but you didn’t raise your gaze from the empty cup before you, fingers circling the rim mindlessly.

They both ignored your question.

Remus had flashed a look to Sirius that said something’s wrong, and he lifted his away from its position, craning his neck to peak at you. And he noticed how your shoulders sagged, like they weighed tonnes more than they had before you disappeared.

Sirius let his hand drag down the curve of your spine, and as much as you knew it was meant to be a comfort—it really did nothing of the sort—body stiffening under his touch.

His brows pinched on his forehead, matching the concerned curve of Remus’ as he spoke, “’S something wrong, love?”

The question had the lump in your throat grow impossibly larger and you felt suddenly much closer to breaking down than you’d care to admit. You couldn’t even disguise the sigh that left you as your hand reached for the kettle that had ticked over, trembling slightly.

“No, just tired—throat hurts.” Your voice was pinched and shaky as you spoke, and Remus could see how your eyes glossed upon their inquiring, reaching for the kettle instead and pouring the water for you. Sirius’ palm was still rubbing small circles into your back, lips curving downwards at the sound of your voice. And he spoke softly, “Come rest on the sofa with me—Rem will make us the tea, yeah?”

Your lips pursed together, but there was no resistance when he took you hand—pulling you away from the counter and into the living room—tv still droning on in the back ground. His chest tugs a bit tighter at the exhuasted way you curl into yourself on the sofa. Taking up as little space a possible, putting too much distance between you.

He doesn’t question it though, allows you your extra slither of space and watches you for a few moments, how your hands are clenched into small fists, watching how your lip has been pulled into the endless assault of your teeth and how you blinked like your eyes were the heaviest thing in the room.

Sirius only brings his hand to rub gently over your head as he stood, walking to get a blanket before draping it over your lap, you barely moved—muttering a small thank you when he straightened and tucked it around you.

Remus eventually made his way into the room, tea in hand and look of concern on his face as he approached. Placing it beside you so gently, as if the sound alone would startle you.

“Put some honey in to help soothe your throat,”

You thanked him with a small smile that he could see was forced, watching both and you and Sirius from the single seater. Sirius’ hands twitched on his lap, restaining himself from reaching out and touching you—because you’d sat so far, frozen under his touch in the kitchen—clearly you wanted space.

Even if it burned him to give it too you.

The tea was only half finished when you dozed off—head slumping forward, your chest raising and dropping slower as you fell deeper into sleep.

Remus was careful to lift you—padding to the bedroom and settling you down and tucking you in. He sat perched on the edge of the bed beside you for a short while, fingers brushing gently over the surface of your cheekbones. Let his eyes wander over your peaceful expression—Remus knew it was more than a sore throat, more than just being tired.

But for now he’d let you sleep, let you enjoy the peace of a much needed slumber.

He’d ask again tomorrow.

And he did.

Subtly at first, just about how you slept, if you were feeling better—you only gave simple, vague answers and forced half-smiles. Sirius was fidgety and restless in his seat across from you—you’d opted to sit in the single chair away from them. Despite the larger sofa capacity for three, even four bodies.

Sirius was less subtle in the way he watched, eyes monitoring your figure, pennying each time you would frown unconsciously. He rose without ceremony from his place beside Remus—he’d noticed the excess layers—the way they bunched up and how you tried to carefully adjust them without too much fuss. But he noticed.

“You cold, love? Shall I turn on the heating?”

The worry in his voice was just as quiet and gentle as the one that swam behind his eyes—you shook your head quietly, lips pressing together in a strained smile and his heart all but sank in his chest. The way your hands wrapped around your middle almost protectively.

He didn’t push further, but you saw his eyes flicker over to Remus, saw the way his brows raised higher on his brows as he murmured something about taking a shower—padding down the corridor without another word.

You watched as he left—eyes stuck on the darkened hallway long after he’d gone, mind drifting as guilt burned in your chest. It was a double edge sword really, how you hated feeling so pathetic, trapped in your own skin—how you couldn’t help but retract under the pressure of your own thoughts.

And to top it all off, your mind wasn’t just damaging you, it was seeping out and spreading onto those around you. They didn’t deserve this, this weak, insecure version of you that loomed around the house, refusing help.

They didn’t deserve to be affected by your own inner turmoil. And they were still treating you so nicely, so careful and attentively—it all just translated to another reason you don’t deserve them.

You hadn’t noticed the shifting of fabric, or the movement from the sofa to your left—not until a dark mass all but spawned in front of you.

Remus.

He was looking down at you with that look. The one accompanied with a crooked smile and soft eyes that had you sinking into the sofa. When he reached out his hands, taking yours from the shielding position around you and dragging you to a stand—you couldn’t find the energy to resist.

Allowing him to walk you backwards across the room, until the back of his knees hit the sofa and you stood between his legs as he settled. Looking up at you as if you were the answer to everything, too tender, too fond and accepting and you wanted to run away from it.

Curl away from the affection that swam in his eyes and the honeyed tone of his voice, “Will you sit with me, dove?”

Remus had a way with his touches. His fingers gliding slowly up your wrists, ghostly and pressure-less, but still warm, inviting, pulling you in like a tide you couldn’t fight. Like water you wanted to drown in.

It took a mere moments more of anchoring touches before you found your way onto Remus’ lap.

He kept his hands in yours, just barely trailing up your forearms before coming back down, his warmth seeping in through all the layers of fabric separating you. Still holding your gaze, everything drifted away into the background, just you and him. And he held you with such delicacy, such reverence you almost didn’t notice the lump building in your throat.

Remus brought both your hands to rest on his chest—and his heart thumped beneath your palm, strong and confident and partially for you. “What’s the matter, my love?”

His hands were already by the sides of your face, thumbs grazing over the tops of your cheekbones and he simply held your gaze with that aching kind of tenderness he always seemed to reserve just for you, his thumbs smoothing away the wrinkles that were formed along with your frown.

You only shook your head, closing your eyes—willing the tremble of your hands to steady against his chest—curling them into his jumper, fists bunching in the soft wool, and you leaned forward until your forehead met his shoulder. It was second nature for his hands to slide down your sides, resting at the dip of your waist but then he felt it.

The way your breathe skipped and how you went ridgid in his hold.

It was obvious, undeniably something.

And his brows arched high on his forehead, creases of concern forming as he leaned back—hands frozen on the bunching fabric of your jumper. You still hadn’t moved, had barely breathed. Remus waited for the exhale, for the slow rise and fall of your shoulders but there was nothing and it made his throat feel unexpectedly dry.

Stomach twisting at the thought of you being uncomfortable because of him, because of his touch.

“Love?”

There was no response, your eyes were squeezed shut, pressed into the fabric of his clothes and you could feel the way his fingers twitched hesitantly at your sides—heat from his palms feeling that bit hotter even if you didn’t want it. Throat feeling tighter, skin all but burning beneath the layers of fabric.

“Are you—d’you want me to let go?” His voice was barely above a whisper, undercut with a concern that was palpable. You didn’t answer, couldn’t—it was already hard enough for you to stablise your pulse. Let alone bring your voice to travel out of your mouth.

And you didn’t know what you wanted—if it would be better for him to let go, or pull you in closer, allow you to sink into him—there were too many thoughts spinning around in your head.

It took everything in you to take a breath, shallow and shaky and not enough for your lungs.

Unfortunately, Remus took your silence as rejection—peeling his hands away from you, letting them drop by his side. His pulse had sped up, you could still feel it beneath your palms, thrumming through the fabric of his jumper. The task of raising your head from his shoulder was too much, instead, you let your hand travel up towards his neck.

The trembles were evident, fingertips just barely tracing over the scar that dorned the curve of his jaw in a small back and forth motion—soothing, lulling.

Remus hesitated only a moment before bringing his hands up, gentle and unsure, to cradle your face. His touch was featherlight—thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones, as if he were afraid you'd flinch. His brows were furrowed in that familiar way, concern etched into every line of his face.

"Look at me," he murmured, voice low and soft, coaxing rather than commanding.

You didn’t want to. Didn’t want him to see it—all the cracks, all the things you were barely holding in. But his touch was grounding, and you were so tired of carrying it alone. Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes met his.

"Talk to me," he said. Not a demand, but a plea. “Please.”

It hurt to even think about it. To try and put it into words, to expose it all—so raw, so unhealed, so shameful. Your throat clenched tight with the effort it took not to speak, and the silence stretched between you like a held breath.

You couldn’t do it. You just couldn’t.

But your hand was still against his jaw, still resting there like it had been since the moment you'd reached for him. Remus glanced down, then slowly, deliberately, he slid one of his own hands over yours. His fingers curled around yours, firm and warm, as he guided them into his palm.

“You know you can tell me anything, love,” he said quietly.

He was only met with a nod, eyes falling down to your joined hands—his hand cradling yours like something sacred and fragile. Gaze lingering on the skin there, where old scars stretched and puckered, weaving across the back of his hand like faded threads. You watched the way they shifted as he held you, how they flexed and moved with each small twitch of his fingers.

It brought you back to the moments he’d got them, new ones—scars to add to the collection.

He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, had waved off your and Sirius’ concern with a thin-lipped smile. But later, when it was just the two of you, you’d seen him sitting at the edge of the bed, shirt half-on, half-forgotten, staring down at the newest scar like it was a curse.

Jaw tight. Knuckles white around the bedsheets. And no matter how many times you or Sirius told him he was beautiful, that you loved every part of him—he never quite believed you.

Not really.

Deep down still hated them, those marks. Saw them as a reflection of the thing inside him he couldn’t escape. The monster he feared he was.

And now, staring down at those same hands holding yours, something inside you twisted.

How could you show him yours? If he could barely stand the sight of his own, how could you ask him to stomach yours? To love them?

Your vision blurred again, eyes stinging as the pressure built. Remus must have seen it—of course he did—because he ducked his head to try and meet your gaze again, voice breaking with quiet urgency.

“Love,” he said, “what’s this about?”

You tried—Gods, you tried—to stay still, to keep it all in. But the dam was already cracking. Your lip wobbled, a single tear slipping down your cheek, betraying you before you could stop it. And then it was too late.

You leaned forward and pressed your face into his chest, breath hitching, your body trembling with the effort of keeping the sobs at bay. His jumper soaked up your tears, and your fingers fisted the fabric instinctively, like you were drowning and he was the only solid thing left.

Remus froze for half a second—uncertain, panicked—before wrapping his arms around you again. Tighter this time. Protective. Careful.

He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know where it was okay to hold you anymore, didn’t know what he’d touched that had opened you up like this. But he held you anyway.

Held you like that for a long time—until the trembling in your shoulders slowed, until the tears had soaked a warm patch into his jumper, until your hands unclenched from their grip on his chest. You didn’t speak. He didn’t push.

The room felt still in that hushed, heavy way that always followed a storm, like the air itself was holding its breath around you.

And then the bathroom door creaked open down the hallway.

You heard it before you saw him—Sirius padding barefoot into the living room, hair damp and curling at the ends, towel slung haphazardly around his neck. He wore an old, faded T-shirt and joggers low on his hips, still drying his arms with the edge of the towel when he glanced over and paused.

His eyes caught on the two of you curled together on the sofa—your face buried in Remus’ chest, Remus’ arms wrapped around you like he wasn’t sure he could let go.

Sirius blinked, the smile he’d been wearing slipping off his face like someone had cut a string.

"Everything alright?" he asked, voice gentle. He didn’t move closer just yet—just stood there, gauging, watching.

You didn’t lift your head, but you felt Remus nod, “Think so,” he said, his voice still low from before. “We’re just…sitting.”

Sirius gave it a beat longer, then crossed the room and dropped down beside you, his leg pressing into yours where you were curled. One of his arms draped across the back of the sofa, not touching, but near enough to remind you he was there. A quiet sort of presence.

He didn’t press either. Didn’t say anything else. Just let the silence settle again.

You sat like that for a while—Remus still cradling you close, Sirius quietly rubbing a thumb over the seam of the cushion. Someone had turned on the lamp earlier, casting the room in soft amber, and somewhere outside the wind was rattling the windowpanes.

Eventually, Remus shifted a little, enough to look at you again. He didn’t pull away, but his head tilted as he studied you, a slight furrow returning to his brow.

You didn't answer.

Remus had asked so softly—"Love, what’s with all the layers?"—but the question settled deep in your gut, heavy and aching. You stared down at your hands, still curled with his, fingers interlaced like a lifeline.

Silence stretched between you. Sirius shifted beside you on the couch, quiet and still now, the usual spark in his eyes dulled by something softer—something more watchful that edge of concern.

His thumb brushed the back of your hand again, gentle, grounding. Then, after a long pause, he said quietly, “Can I touch you?”

Your eyes flicked to him, startled—not because you didn’t understand, but because you did.

He didn’t mean it like that. He meant the layers. The reason you’d stayed swaddled in fabric even as the flat had grown warm and the fire crackled faintly in the hearth. He meant that.

You gave the smallest nod.

Remus shifted, careful and slow, lifting his hands from yours. He didn’t move toward you right away—just let you breathe, let you have the space to decide. And when you didn’t flinch, when your shoulders didn’t rise to curl away like they usually did—he reached out, palms finding your sides through the thick material, warm and trembling just slightly.

You let him.

And then, maybe out of instinct or guilt or something bitterer, you looked over at Sirius.

Perfect, scarless Sirius.

He was watching you both, eyes wide and dark in the low light, hair still damp from the shower. His skin caught the glow of the lamp and turned gold—soft, beautiful, untouched by the things that marred you. You didn’t think he meant to look so effortless. But he did.

And it made you want to curl into yourself.

You looked down again, chest tight with shame. It sat in your lungs like smoke, cloying and hot. How could you explain it to them—how your own body felt foreign and broken and ruined in ways they couldn’t see? How could you show them the jagged edges of what was left behind?

But then—

Then Remus’ hands, steady against your ribs, slid just slightly, not to expose you, not to see—just to be there. Just to hold. And you felt the faint, rhythmic thump of his heartbeat against your ear, where your head still rested against his chest. A quiet, constant drum.

Strong. Steady. His.

He couldn’t feel them. The scars. But he knew you were hiding something, knew something was there.

You hadn’t said a word, and somehow he still knew.

And then his voice came again, quieter now, closer to your temple.

“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” he said, careful, measured, as though every word was something sacred. “But will you show me?”

For a moment, no one moved. Not even you. The weight of Remus' question hovered in the space between you, heavy and trembling like your own hands.

Then—Sirius.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His hand came to rest at the curve of your neck, gentle, anchoring. His fingers were warm, just barely there, and you felt it for what it was: silent reassurance. Encouragement. A tether.

So you moved.

You leaned back slowly, your lips pressed into a thin, tight line. Your fingers fumbled at the hem of your layers—one, then two, then the third beneath—and they trembled, the fabric bunched and clumsy in your grip. Your head dipped down, shame pooling low in your chest as you began to lift.

The clothes gathered at your ribs, and you stilled, bracing yourself.

It was out now.

The skin that you had hidden for so long—marred and uneven, smeared with raised texture and darkened pigment, raw around the edges. Ugly, your mind supplied. Ugly, brutal, wrong.

You couldn’t look at them. Not Remus, not Sirius. You stared at your lap, blinking fast.

And then Remus breathed out, barely a sound, but you caught it.

“Dove…” he whispered.

Your body tensed up, wanting to recoil, wanting to pull the layers back down and disappear under them forever, hide the mess of what you were. Because surely—surely—they hated it. Thought it looked grotesque, ill-fitting, revolting.

Your voice came out small and shaking. “I know they’re hideous. I tried to hide them, but—”

“No,” Sirius cut in sharply, fiercely. “Absolutely not. They’re not hideous. Not at all.”

His voice didn’t waver.

Remus made a soft sound in agreement, and you felt his hands rise again, hesitating for the briefest moment before they brushed against the skin. You flinched at first—couldn’t help it—but he didn’t withdraw.

His palms were warm. Gentle. They moved over you with such unbearable care, and you could feel how his touch softened around the sore spots, the still-tender parts of you.

A silence fell, heavy and waiting, wrapped in the crackle of the fire and the quiet thud of your heart.

You couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

“Do you…do you hate them?”

The words barely left your mouth, but they were enough. Remus’ head snapped up, and the expression on his face made your chest hurt. Offence. Pain. Worry. Love.

You reached down, trying to tug the layers back into place, trying to hide again, to close the space between your body and theirs. He let you. Let the fabric cover his hands that hadn’t moved, that still rested lightly on your skin like a promise he wasn’t ready to let go of.

He watched your eyes, wide and glossy, how your fingers twisted in the sleeve of your jumper, how your lip trembled and you still couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

His voice broke when he spoke.

“I—I could never hate it. Never, my love.” His breath hitched. “How could you think that?”

You didn’t answer. Not for a long moment.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly for the room—you said, “You hate yours…I just thought…”

You never finished the sentence.

Remus' hands slipped out from under the hem of your clothes and moved to your face, cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing over the delicate stretch of skin beneath your eyes. His touch was reverent, his gaze brimming with affection that was raw and aching. Twisting with unspoken apologies and guilt.

“No…no,” he whispered, eyes locking with yours. “Never on you. You’re perfect.”

Remus’ voice cracked at the end,

“There’s nothing I could hate on you. I promise, love.”

Your breath hitched at Remus’ words, chest tight beneath the weight of emotion pressing down on your ribs. He still held your face between his hands, gentle as ever, and you couldn’t quite bring yourself to meet his eyes, not when they held that much tenderness, not when your shame still clawed at your throat.

He spoke with such conviction, like your perfection was an indisputable truth.

Sirius shifted beside you. You felt the couch dip as he moved closer, hand still resting lightly at your nape, his thumb brushing back and forth in soft, grounding circles. He leaned in, forehead just brushing yours, voice low

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “if you only knew how beautiful you are to us. You could tear the stars out of the sky and I still wouldn’t look at anything else.”

You blinked and your cheeks were wet—the tears spilling over, silent and slow. Remus’ thumb brushed one away, and then another.

“They’re not something to be ashamed of,” Sirius continued, shifting to press a kiss to your temple. “They’re a part of you. And we—” he glanced at Remus “—we love all of you. Even the bits you think are unlovable.”

Remus nodded, leaning his forehead to yours. “Especially those,” he whispered. “the ones you hate, the ones can’t love for yourself.”

You were quiet for a while after that, held between the two of them, your face tucked beneath Remus’ chin, Sirius’ lips occasionally brushing the back of your neck in a way that made you feel real again—held close, Remus smoothing the fabric over your skin with the same care someone might offer to silk.

Hands lingering just long enough to reassure, to ground, and then they slid back to your waist, wrapping around you in tandem with Sirius.

New is fun, new is good.

New is firsts.

And while some kinds of new—that confessional i love you, that leaves you breathless and dizzy and at a loss for words—is more welcomed than others, there is also the other kind.

The first (but most definitely not last) time you had to hold Marlene back from lunging at and attacking Sirius like some rabid animal. That sort of new is...well, new. And admittedly? A little entertaining.

It really was because of that blasted spare key.

Marlene had decided maybe it was best to let the dust settle before she forced her way into your space. To try and console you and make you realise that maybe it was better that Sirius was a right foul git and you deserved better—she had it all prepared, planned it out on the drive over.

Brought your favourite films and snacks in preperation for a long, quiet day of comforting, ice-cream, junk food and trash talking the older Black brother.

So you can just imagine the shock and horror when she pulled into your usually empty drive way, to see that same goddamn motorbike there—blocking her from parking. And though Marlene did eventually find a spot, just down the road—where she had to pay for the parking—it just added to her anger.

Barging into your building in a hurricane of fury.

Because how dare he, the absolute cheek—he’d gone and snogged Emmeline right in front of you—he’d shown up to torture you more, plead his case when that was the last thing you needed. Neither of you had time to compute the sound of the door slamming open, the hinges yelling under the pressure of Marlene’s swing. You’d been asleep, cuddled and scrunched up together on the too small sofa, face buried into the corner of Sirius’ neck.

And when your head shot up at the sound of knob crashing into the wall—hard—wincing at the impact and it surely left a dent. If the way the harsh bang echoed through the room didn’t awake Sirius, the way your forehead knocked against his chin definetly did. A pained groan sounding from him as your scrambled to a stand, hands pressing into his stomach to support your rise—forcing a low “Oof,” out of him.

The look on Marlene’s face had alarm bells ringing in your head—still fuzzy from sleep, the thud of the bags to the floor shook you out of it—allowing you to hone in on the way her face was getting redder by the second. Eyes franctically darting between you and Sirius’ disgruntled, winded figure.

“Are you fucking joking right now?!”

Sirius all but teleported to the other side of the room at the harsh sound of Marlene’s tone—arms mimicking yours in their raised to defense while yours were more to ward her off.

Voice still hoarse from sleep and the night’s shed tears, trying to calm the impending attack on your newly appointed boyfriend—”Marls…MARLENE! Just wait—let me explain—!” you started.

But she didn’t wait—all but vaulting over the couch surely in search of a way to get Sirius into her grasp and throttle him. Rant loud on her tongue, littered with profanity and every insult under the sun as he rounded the corner of your dining table.

Sirius had managed to evade her thus far—breathless on the other side of the dining table—but to his misfortune, he’d trapped himself.

It was only a few more tense moments of back and forth circling the table before you found your way into the mix. Edging Sirius into a safer corner, standing between them brows stretched into a distressed grimance—she took another step forwards—and Sirius mirrored her with a step back.

The whole situation was painfully laughable—sleep still clinging to the corners of your eyes, lips chapped and dribble stained. Sirius’ hair pushed up awkwardly on one side, matching the panic in his eyes as you shielded him.

Marlene wasn’t going to give up, threats slipping throught the cacophany of clattering furniture as she advanced.

“Black! When I get my hands on you, I swear to Merlin...” The frown on her face morphed into a scrowl when he responded.

“Not having the best morning? Are we Marls—Oi!” He just narrowly dodged the banana hurtled in his direction, and you hissed out his name in a chiding way that all but screamed not the time. Trying again to have her see some reason, or at least stop throwing objects around your kitchen—

”Marls, please. Just hold on a sec—Please, don’t throw—!”

It was a bit late for that. Another poor fruit from the bowl clattering against the counter—and satsuma this time.

“Why are you protecting that lump of shit, Y/N!”

You could only roll your eyes at the way Sirius muttered from behind you, “I can hear you, y’know,” Arms still outstretched in a rather pitiful attempt at shielding him, pleading with your eyes as much as you could, words urgent and rushed as they leave your mouth.

“He didn’t do it on purpose—it was a misunderstanding!” You step back hazardly, just barely missing Sirius’ sock-clad feet as you back him away from her, she resembled an angered bull more than anything. You could practically see the steam leaving her nose as she huffed out in disbelief—

“How does one snog another accidently?!” Marlene, undeterred, advanced again.

Okay, she had a fair point. But it really was just an unfortunate circumstance, you almost winced at her pitch—“If you gave me a second, maybe I’d be able to explain—”

“Black’s a slick git—you can’t trust a word out of his lying mouth!”

“You have such little faith in me, McKinnon!” Sirius gasped from behind you, like he’d been physically wounded by her words.

“Oh, shut it, Black—” Marlene snapped, advancing another step like she was genuinely weighing whether a cereal box could double as a weapon. “You’re lucky I left the bloody bat in the boot.”

You flinched at that one. Sirius did too.

“Marls, breathe, please,” you said, still firmly planted between them, arms stretched like a human barricade. “Just listen to me for one minute, okay? One. And if you’re still mad after, I’ll let you chuck the whole fruit bowl at him.”

“You say that like I wasn’t already planning to,” she growled, but her pace slowed—just a touch. The red in her cheeks hadn’t faded, but her eyes flicked to you, and some of the fury cracked around the edges.

You seized your chance.

It was rather finnicky to explain, how Emmeline had just grabbed the nearest person in a drunken flurry—all but dragging him into her by his collar—emphasising how it barely lasted not even five seconds.

How Sirius pushed her off in an instant, how it just happened to be him—how he’d never do anything like that to you—his hand coming down to rest on your waist lightly. Marlene looked between you both again. Sirius’ head poked out from behind your shoulder, expression genuinely apologetic now. “It really was just a misunderstanding—swear on my bike.”

“…That’s not very reassuring.”

“It is to me,” he muttered, then visibly winced when you elbowed him.

Marlene let out a sharp exhale, pinching the bridge of her nose, chiding thoughts interrupted by Sirius’ almost goading comment he murmured, “Can’t have a morning with my girlfriend without getting chased about the kitchen.”

Her eyes snapped up at that, and he knew well that she’d hear it—the room was all but silence, still edge with simmering tension as Marlene contempleted whether to let him live despite it all.

Narrowing her gaze like she’d just caught wind of something foul. "Girlfriend?" she repeated, voice climbing to a sharp pitch, eyes darting between you both like she was genuinely concerned for your well-being. "As in, officially? Now? As in overnight?!"

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. But you could feel the burn start in your chest and crawl rapidly up your neck, setting your ears ablaze. Sirius, behind you, seemed completely unbothered by the sudden exposure of it all.

“Yep,” he said simply, rather chuffed with himself like he wasn’t outing something so fresh it was barely processed even by you. And you froze as he stuck his tongue out at Marlene over your shoulder and then pressed an obnoxiously loud, wet kiss to your cheek with a ridiculous mwah noise, hands still casually resting on your waist.

So startled by the contact and the very bold declaration that your body went completely stiff under the affection. Heat surged to your face in mortifying waves as Sirius just grinned, completely unapologetic.

Marlene recoiled with a grimace. “Oh bloody hell,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “You’re so lucky she’s soft.”

Sirius grinned wider. “She is. It’s why I like her.”

“You’re pushing it,” Marlene warned, still eyeballing you both with such profound disbelief it could've peeled wallpaper. “Good thing I found that out before I keyed his bloody bike.”

That got Sirius’ attention. His expression dropped like a stone. “You were going to key my bike?!” he gasped, scandalised.

Marlene only shrugged, turning on her heel like it was the most casual thing in the world, shopping bags swinging in her hands as she marched toward the living room.

Sirius was already following after her like a panicked puppy, tugging you along with one hand still clasped in his. “Marlene—I swear to Merlin—my bike! What did it ever do to you?!”

“Oh calm down,” she drawled over her shoulder. “Didn’t even have time to scratch it.” She let out a long, theatrical sigh as she dropped her bags on the coffee table. “Guess I won’t be slagging off Sirius Black today.”

“You can stay, you know!” you protested, finally finding your voice again, still trailing behind Sirius like your brain was lagging ten steps behind this whole morning. “At least stay for a cuppa—”

Marlene made a gagging noise so exaggerated it almost echoed. “No, no—I won’t intrude on your morning—” she checked her watch, “afternoon with your boyfriend.” She shot you a pointed look over her shoulder, fingers wiggling in a phone gesture as she mouthed we’ll talk later.

Sirius, meanwhile, was still stuck somewhere between relief and residual panic. “You almost keyed my bike,” he muttered, half to himself.

Marlene didn’t even grace him with a second glance as she slipped out the door. “I still might, Black.”

The door clicked shut.

And then it was just you and Sirius in the stillness of your flat, your face still hot, your limbs still awkward, and Sirius—as ever—completely unfazed.

He turned to you, that stupid smirk tugging at his lips, eyes dancing with mischief.

“You froze when I kissed you,” he teased, tilting his head as his hands slid back to your waist, fingertips pressing gently.

“Shut up,” you muttered, still burning, unable to look him in the eye.

But then he was walking you backwards, slow and deliberate, until your back met the cool wall and he caged you in with a certain smugness.

“You’re really cute when you’re all flustered, y’know that?” he murmured, eyes soft but playful, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek. “Think I might have to do that more often.”

You glared at him, or tried to, but it lacked conviction when your face was still hot and he was looking at you like that—eyes all lazy delight and intent amusement, lips quirking like he had you pinned in more ways than one.

“I will literally kill you,” you muttered, trying not to smile—failing—as you turned your face away, pulse ringing embrassingly loud in your ears, heart thumping rapid beneath your ribs. .

“Ooh,” he grinned, leaning in closer, his breath warm fanning over your cheek, “is that a threat from my girlfriend?” He exaggerated the word with a mock gasp, like it still thrilled him to say it aloud. Which, honestly, it probably did.

“You’re lucky I don’t set you on fire,” you muttered, voice tight with embarrassment.

“I’d let you,” he said, dramatically placing a hand over his chest. “Burn me to ash, darling, but kiss me first.”

You let out a splutter of laughter that you tried to smother with your hand, but he caught your wrist, gently pinning it to the wall beside your head. The other hand skimmed your waist, touch maddeningly light, and he grinned like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“I hate you,” you whispered, but it came out soft and breathy and baseless.

“Oh I know, sweetheart,” he whispered back with mock solemnity, brushing his nose against yours. “Tragic, really. Because I’m about to do something unforgivable.”

And before you could ask, what—he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft, not exactly—it was all smugness and heat, lips pressing ato yours with that same teasing confidence he wore like a second skin. He kissed you like he was winning, like he’d caught you mid-swoon and was soaking it in. Letting his hand sliding up your back, keeping you close—his warmth radiating through the thin fabric of your bed clothes, the wall behind you keeping you from melting into a puddle while your knees did their best impression of useless.

When he finally pulled back, his grin was obnoxiously wide.

“You froze again,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours now. “Gods, I’m good.”

“You’re insufferable,” you managed to say, breath shaky, though your hands had somehow wound into his shirt like you’d forgotten how to let go.

“Mm. And yet…” he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, your collarbone, just barely grazing the skin with his teeth like he couldn’t help himself, earning him a quiet gasp. “Here you are. Still kissing me. Still blushing. Still all mine.”

New titles, new teases, new thrills.

Because Sirius really did bring a blood-pumping, head-spinning thrill into everything, every moment laces with and intertwined with the intoxicating feeling that was just him.

Even the mundane wasn’t just that with him—it was more, it was better—everything it had already been and everything you’d hope it to be.

He made his presence known in your little flat with purpose, claiming an entire shelf in your bathroom cabinet—and you welcomed it.

Watched it fill slowly, piece by piece, with his things: the woodsy-sweet aftershave that you fought the urge not to take a swig of some mornings, a crooked stack of faded hairbands, a few silver chains that clinked together gently, a worn tin of hair gel, cologne, a hard bristle brush. The toothbrush you’d given him “just in case” had somehow multiplied into three.

And you put his array of toileties to use—mainly helping him though.

You’d thought it nearly impossible for Sirius to be at yours more than he already was. Yet somehow, he proved you wrong, subtly phasing out of his shared flat with James and all but moving in with you.

His boots in the hallway. His coat thrown over your chair. His bike helmet permanently perched on top of your record player.

Although it wasn’t official—no formal conversation, no labelled drawers or declarations—it was becoming more and more apparent how well integrated Sirius was becoming into your daily routine.

It was most obvious in the mornings—and though you’d shared many before, it was different now somehow.

The alarm buzzed obnoxiously, sharp through the hush of your room, cutting through sleep like a blade and your hand shot out from under the covers, patting around blindly until you found the button and silenced it.

For now.

Sirius hummed softly from behind you, arm still looped lazily around your middle, you tried to sink deeper into his warmth, eyes squeezing shut, cheek pressing into him like the night had only just begun.

“You’ve got to get up now, love,” he whispered, mouth brushing against the shell of your ear, lips curling into a smile when you shook your head defiantly and mumbled, “Absolutely not. I’m deceased.”

That earned a soft chuckle, and the vibrations rumbled through both your tangled forms. “You said that yesterday. Still here.”

“M’time was tragically short-lived.”

“Come on,” he coaxed, his voice a warm rasp in the low light. “I’ll get up with you.”

Another unintelligible mutter left you, but your eyes cracked open—just barely—a reluctant olive branch. Then, before you could react, protest to his offer, he was shifting out from under you, gathering you into his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Curling into him you hummed, limp in his arms, arms clinging around his neck as he carried you to the bathroom, bare feet padding quietly across the wooden floor. Pushing the door open with his hip and deposited you gently in front of the sink, keeping his arms around you when your knees buckled slightly from the shock of standing. You slumped against him, eyelids heavy again, pout forming without thought.

“Merlin,” he breathed with a smile, brushing your hair gently out of your face, “you’re hopeless.”

All that left you was a sleepy sound of protest, trying to ignore the harshness of the bathroom light with closed eyes—“Open,” he prompted, his own voice till hoarse with sleep—toothbrush already ready in hand.

You obeyed, lips parting slowly. He brushed your teeth for you with practiced care, murmuring something about how spoiled you were. When he held the mug of water to your lips so you could rinse and gargle, he pulled your hair back with the other hand, moving through it all like a routine he’d rehearsed.

When you’d finished, he turned you around by the hips to face him again, your eyes puffy from sleep but a little more awake now. He grinned, leaned down, and pressed a firm kiss to your pout.

“Shower,” he said, rubbing slow circles on your back.

You nodded with a small hum, and he turned to set the water running—one hand testing the warmth before reaching for the hem of his shirt on you. He peeled it off carefully, knuckles grazing your skin like a whisper, and helped you step into the steam.

While you showered, he moved about the flat with habitual ease—setting out your clothes for the day, your work bag prepped with charger and laptop, tea steeping on the counter. He even warmed your towel in the dryer before coming back to swap places with you.

And when you were dressed, now far more alive than earlier but still yawning as you dried your hair, you returned to the bathroom to find Sirius half-ready, leaning into the mirror drying his face and opening the cabinet to reach for—

His brows furrowed at the clear empty space on the shelf that would usually housed his brush, running a hand thorugh his hair—eyes flitting around the bathroom before landing on you.

And you stifled a grin, holding it up smugly from behind him. “Looking for this?”

He turned around, eyeing you dramatically. “My saviour!”

“Hand me the gel,” you said, stepping up onto the little wooden stool you kept by the sink just for this reason. Sirius passed it to you obediently and stood still as you carefully slicked back his hair—your fingers threading through it with far more affection and attention to detail than necessary for simple grooming.

His motorbike helmet sat nearby, ready and waiting.

He watched you quietly as you fussed over his hair. He didn’t say it, but it was in his eyes, swimming gently behind his half-blown pupils—the affection, the comfort, the subtle contentment in the luck he had, that you were the one standing there, fussing over him.

When you finished, you gave his chin a gentle tap. He leaned in and kissed you again, longer this time—smiling against your lips.

“I’ll drive you,” he murmured, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “So maybe a jacket, hmm?”

Like usual, Sirius drove from your workplace to his garage, the familiar hum of the engine beneath him like second nature now. The ride was short, but it was always enough to clear his head and slip him into that comfortable rhythm—the one that only came with grease-stained hands, petrol in the air, and the familiar clangs and creaks of a place that felt more like home than anywhere else.

By the time he rolled the bike up the ramp and into the workshop, the garage was already humming with life.

Music blasted from the scuffed speaker perched haphazardly on a high shelf—something fast and loud, the kind of thing you’d call ‘chaotic’ and he’d call ‘motivational.’ He tossed his helmet onto the bench, ran a hand through his hair—now slightly undone from the ride—and tugged his shirt over his head, leaving him in the plain tank beneath.

Tools clanked as he got to work, fingers nimble as he tuned a few finicky components in the engine. Between adjustments, he took moments to add a few new stickers to the side of the bike’s fuel tank—some sent by friends, others collected at odd shops, and one he’d been waiting to arrive for weeks. Hands working on muscle memory, a towel tucked into the waistband of his faded jeans, ready for the inevitable grease and smudges.

He didn’t notice James arrive until the soft crunch of tires sounded on the gravel outside. The car door slammed, and a familiar voice rang out, slightly muffled beneath the music. Sirius looked up with a grin as James strolled in, carrying a brown paper bag and two takeaway drinks.

“Oi, Pads!” James called, already grinning. “Brought lunch. Figured you’d forget to eat again unless it walked in on its own legs.”

Sirius laughed, tugging the towel from his waistband to wipe the oil from his hands as he made his way over. “Speak for yourself. I’m just incredibly selective with my meals.”

“Selective, my arse,” James shot back, giving him a few hearty taps on the back as they met in the middle of the garage. “You’d eat three bags of crisps and call it gourmet if it came with a pint.”

Sirius snorted, already peeking into the bag. “And yet you bring me exactly what I didn’t know I was dying for.”

“You’re welcome.” James flopped onto the worn leather sofa tucked into the corner of the garage—its cushions permanently dented from years of lounging, gaming, and midday naps. Sirius washed his hands properly in the sink this time, swapping out his grease-smudged top for a clean black tee before joining James with a satisfied hum.

They ate casually, talking in that way they always did—overlapping thoughts, half-finished stories, laughing at things they didn’t even need to explain anymore. But not long into it, James leaned back and let out a dramatic sigh.

“You know, I rarely see you anymore,” he complained, gesturing lazily with a crisp. “We live together. Or at least, I thought we did.”

Sirius just laughed, brushing the crumbs from his lap as he pushed off the couch and wandered back to the bike. “You’re being dramatic. You see me all the time.”

“Hmm,” James muttered. “Funny. The ghost of you leaves mugs in the sink but doesn’t speak.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, grabbing a stool and plopping down onto it, new stickers in one hand and a blowdryer in the other. He leaned over the bike carefully, lining up the next addition with practiced precision.

The collar of his shirt hung low on his shoulder as he concentrated, exposing just a bit of skin.

And James caught it immediately.

He sat up straighter, eyes narrowing with amusement. A very fresh, very obvious set of hickies peeked out from under the shirt, nestled high on Sirius’ collarbone and flushed faint pink, trailing down further than he could see.

And just like that, James was on his feet with a bounce in his step, sauntering over with all the mischief of a boy who’d just discovered the best secret.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, dragging out each word as he approached. “So that’s who’s been stealing you away then, Pads.”

Sirius didn’t even look up, brows furrowed in concentration as he forced an air bubble from under the letter. “What on earth are you on about now?”

James stopped just beside him, towering over the stool where Sirius was still focused on the bike’s curve, trying to smooth the sticker just right. His voice dipped into a hum.

“Hmm. Not sure. Could be the disappearing acts. Or maybe,” he said, dragging the moment out, “just maybe it’s the very telling bruises on your chest.” Putting a painful emphasis on the s, grinning at him like the cat that got the cream.

That got Sirius’ attention.

He blinked and turned his head sharply to look at James, realisation dawning almost instantly. “Fuck off,” he muttered, rolling his eyes and shifting on the stool, tugging his collar up without too much urgency—but the smirk that twitched at the corners of his lip gave him away.

And James just grinned wider. “Whoever she is, mate, she’s got a serious biting problem.”

“Oh, shove off, Prongs.”

“Does she know you get all flushed like a schoolboy when you’re caught?”

Sirius clicked the blowdryer on pointedly, drowning out James’ snickering. But even over the buzz, his grin was unmistakable, his ears tinged slightly pink.

James wasn’t going to let it go that easily—not when his best friend was clearly smitten. Not when Sirius was practically glowing with the kind of quiet joy that didn’t come from engines or speed or mischief—but from something, or more accurately someone, who’d managed to make even Sirius Black domesticated.

Or at least something very eerily close to it.

Sirius had been doing well to stay off James’ radar. He dodged the teasing with dramatic groans and artful deflections, buried any real details beneath smirks and shrugs and the occasional cryptic comment that meant nothing and everything all at once. You hadn’t talked about it explicitly—it wasn’t technically a secret—but Sirius hadn’t exactly broadcasted it either.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Hell, if it were up to him, he’d happily shout it from the rooftops. He’d staple flyers to lampposts. Spray paint your initials across the hood of his bike. But he also knew—without question—that James would wrestle him off said rooftop if he ever found out.

Not because James didn’t trust him. Not really.

But because James was just as, if not more protective over you than Marlene was. He always had been, you were one of his closest friends too. His sister in everything but blood. And from the very beginning, James had drawn the line so clearly it may as well have been carved in stone.

You were off limits. Non-negotiable.

And Sirius? Sirius understood. He got it. He respected it. Until you kissed him by the pool, your eyes glassy with drink and affection. Until you fell asleep in his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Until he looked at you and saw something quiet and golden and terrifying.

And even then—especially then—James had still written it off. Dismissed it entirely.

Even after the way your eyes trailed after Sirius when you thought no one was watching. Even after Sirius had carried you to bed that night, careful and silent and far too gentle, while James followed with crossed arms and a tight jaw, muttering something about “no funny business.”

He’d made his stance perfectly clear. That night was the warning shot.

And Sirius?

Sirius had tried—really tried—not to fall over that line.

But lines get blurry in the dark. And when you invited him in for tea, slowed him down with soft eyes and an even softer voice—and he had no choice but to fall.

By some insane miracle, Marlene still remained the only one who knew.

And it’s not like you were being slick in the slightest—always together, practically attached at the hip, Sirius’ bike a permanent fixture outside your flat, his jacket thrown over the back of your couch, your shampoo smelling suspiciously like his cologne. Clothes folded together, mugs interchanged, playlists bleeding into one another like you’d been tangled up for years instead of months.

Realistically, all James needed to do to figure it out was open his eyes. Drive by your place, see Sirius’ bike parked out front. Stop by unannounced and spot his boots by the door, or worse—him, sprawled on your sofa like he paid rent.

But somehow, the world had yet to catch up with the two of you.

It was a random weekend when Sirius suggested driving you to his garage. “If you’re gonna keep nicking my shirts, might as well see where they end up covered in grease,” he’d said, flashing that easy grin, his hand already on the small of your back as you both headed out.

Placing a helmet on your head before riding out of your road.

It was your first time there—eyes wide with curiosity as you stepped into the wide, sunlit space that smelt like oil, metal, and faintly of something that was just...him.

Music booming from an old speaker tucked on a shelf, some grungy rock track you half-recognised, while Sirius pulled the garage door up with a heave and parked the bike inside.

He’d already shrugged off his jacket, wearing just a faded black tank that clung to his chest and arms like a second skin, muscles glistening slightly from the ride over. You’d been trying very hard not to oogle—failing miserably—as you wandered around, pretending to be interested in the shelves lined with tools you couldn’t name.

Watching from behind him on a rickety stool as his hands worked a wrench into a metal crevice with a whiny squeak.

But then you saw it.

A sticker on the side of his bike, your initials in bold—tucked into the design between a handful of other vinyl patches.

You blinked, scooting closer on the chair, hinges whining with each movement—eyes narrowing, head tilted. “...Is that...?”

He glanced back over his shoulder, lips twitching up into a smirk as he caught your stunned expression—following your eyes to the curve of his bike. “Took you long enough to notice,” he said, eyes glinting. “It’s been on there for weeks.”

You tried—really tried—to purse your lips and school your face into something unimpressed. But the smile tugging at your mouth was impossible to suppress. “You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, heart thudding against your ribs.

Sirius just wiped his hands on a rag and crouched down beside the engine again, voice light. “Could get you one of your own, y’know.”

“One of what?” You craned your neck to get a better look at him.

“A bike.”

You eyes all but pooped out of your head, jaw slacking. “Why the hell would I want my own personal death machine?”

He rolled his eyes, grinning, voice muffled by the hollow metal he spoke into. “Come on, you’ve been on mine loads of times. At this point you could probably drive me around.”

“Not the same,” you grumbled, arms crossing. “You know it’s not the same.”

But he was already straightening up, seriously considering it. “I could teach you.”

“No,” you said instantly—eyes closed as you shook your head.

“Yes,” he countered, and before you could even protest again, he had his hands at your waist and was lifting you, setting you down onto the leather seat of his bike like you weighed nothing. Voice was pinched and high as you squawked in his hold, “Sirius! I’m not qualified! This has to be illegal—”

“You’ve got a license, don’t you?”

“Not for this! I can barely drive a bloody Prius.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll stick a big ‘L’ plate on the back.” He winked. “That way everyone knows to stay the hell away.”

“Sirius, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“It’s literally not that hard.” He hopped on behind you, guiding your hands to the handles, voice low and patient in your ear. “You’ll be fine.” Settling his hands on your hips as he whispered lowly, words clear with each demonstrative reve of the engine.

You made a few hesitant attempts with him helping from behind, feet planted, steering gently, fingers over yours like a guide. And honestly—it wasn’t that hard. Not with him purring instructions into your ear, chest warm against your back—not with the way he made everything feel stupidly safe.

Eventually, he stepped back and nodded toward the open space in the lot. “Alright. Go on. Try a little circle, hotshot.”

Your heart thumped in your chest. “You’re insane.”

“Mmhm. And yet you love me.”

You didn’t have time to deny it before you were inching forward, tires rolling with a gentle hum. Keeping it slow, circling once, then twice, wind brushing past your cheeks and Sirius watching from a distance with that annoyingly proud smile.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad, the thrill, the rush—the undeniable adrenaline rushing through your veins, the feeling of invincibility going straight to your head.

Until the front wheel caught a thick stone on the ground just as you accidentally nudged the gear. The bike lurched forward, engine revving with unexpected speed. And panic crashed over you in an instant. Sirius was yelling—something about braking—but the sound was lost beneath the roar of the bike and the rush of blood in your ears.

Your hands fumbled—your balance tipped.

Catching sight of the brick wall in front of you, you swerved, narrowly avoiding it, but the motion threw you clean off the seat. And you hit the ground hard, a dull crack against your temple and your skin scraping viciously against concrete.

The pain was sharp, immediate, blooming hot across your arm and head.

You barely had time to process it before Sirius was there—running toward you, shouting your name—almost drowned out by the sound of the bike still revving a few meters away—shuffling against the gravel—dust kicking around the faintly turning wheel.

“Hey—hey, hey, I’ve got you—shit, love, stay still.” His hands were already on you, gentle but frantic, lifting you from the pavement as you winced, trying to blink away the spinning.

The whole underside of your arm stung, head throbbing as blood sticky and warm trickled from a gash above your brow. Sirius pressed the towel from his waistband to your forehead, muttering soft, soothing nonsense as he picked you up in his arms and carried you back into the garage.

“It’s okay, you’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, half-choked with guilt and panic—pulse still ringing in your ears. “The bike—I didn’t mean to—I don’t know what happened—”

“Shh, it’s okay.” He settled you on the edge of the workbench, your legs dangling as he stood between them, brushing hair from your face. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“But I scraped it up—your bike’s probably all ruined—” you rambled, the words tumbling out in a breathless panic as you stared at the floor, the edges of your vision still fuzzy, the sting of your wounds flaring hotter with every second.

But Sirius was already in front of you, hands cupping your face with the kind of gentleness that shouldn’t have been possible from someone who’d just sprinted like his heart was on the line.

“Love.” His voice cut through your spiral like a balm. Steady. Low. Firm. “Right now, I don’t give a single shit about the bike.”

And then, with impossible tenderness, he leaned in—close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, smell the faint trace of leather and metal and the shampoo you both used. Soft, fleeting, just a brush of his lips against yours like he wasn’t sure how much pressure you could handle right now. Like he didn’t want to break the moment, holding you like you were made of the finest china.

When he pulled back, air caught in your throat, heat swirling in your chest as his voice reached your ears.

“Just stay still,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

You nodded

He exhaled, watching your face for a beat longer, like he was making sure you were still in there with him, then turned slightly, tugging open a drawer beside the bench with one hand while the other still braced lightly against your knee.

The first aid kit clattered onto the surface beside you, and he opened it with quick, practiced motions. You watched, dazed, as he tugged on a pair of gloves, popped the cap off a bottle of antiseptic, and gently soaked a gauze pad.

You winced as he reached for your arm, the sting of your scraped skin reigniting the moment his fingers brushed near.

Sirius worked quietly, brows drawn together in concentration, the soft scrape of gauze against your skin the only sound between you. Deft fingers careful and precise, but even then the occasional sting had you wincing slightly, shifting on the bench—legs swinging slightly off the edge, watching the way he moved like he was doing something sacred.

He didn’t say much—just pressed a little harder here, smoothed tape there—and finally muttered, half to himself, "How on earth am I ever supposed to leave you alone?"

It was meant as a joke. A throwaway. But you latched onto it without thinking.

“You…you don’t have to,” you said softly. “You could just move in with me.”

There was a pause.

Not dramatic. Not crushing. Just…quiet. His hand didn’t stop moving, didn’t flinch or drop or freeze. Sirius just kept working, brows furrowed as he concentrated on the last of your scrapes. He hummed faintly in response, but it was dismissive—distant. Unreadable.

Your stomach twisted. Shame crept in, slow and thick, your body tensing in its wake.

Too soon. It’s too soon. You pushed it. He’s not there yet.

Quickly you averted you gaze, focusing on the dangle of you legs—each flick of your shoelaces, retreating into yourself. “Actually, um…I probably don’t need any more fixing up—I feel fine,”

You started to hop off the bench, your head still spinning slightly, one foot hitting the floor with a wobble. Pain flared through your arm and your side as you shifted your weight, making you stumble slightly.

Sirius straightened in alarm. “Whoa, hey—where are you going?”

“M’fine now,” words rushed and breathy, brushing at your shirt like it could distract from your spiraling, arm burning at the stretch of your skin. “Really, I’m okay.”

“You’re still bleeding,” he deadpanned, brows pinched in concern, reaching for your waist again to steady you. “Let me finish. We can go home, yeah?”

You didn’t reply. Just nodded, eyes locked on the floor while he coaxed you gently back onto the bench. He kept working, patching the final gash on your forearm—but now there was something different in the air.

A silence that wasn’t peaceful. Tension had crept in, curled around the space between you.

Even as he applied pressure to the scraps, spread cold ointment over your skin, you remained silent—lips pursed together. Just the occasional hiss, and then silence again. Staring at your shoes, at the concrete your feet swung above.

When Sirius finally finished, peeling off his gloves with a snap, watching you closely. His voice was gentler now, lower—and you could feel his breath fanning over the surface of your skin.

“What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer, not looking at him.

So he stepped in closer, arms sliding around your waist, hands warm against your sides, caging you in. He tilted his head, trying to catch your eyes.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Talk to me. Does your head hurt?”

You glanced up, lips pursing again as you shake your head slightly. There was no accusation in your expression—just uncertainty. Vulnerability. Like you were already preparing for rejection. And it made him pause for a moment—eyes scanning your face before his lips twitched at the corners.

“I do want to move in with you, love,” he said softly, eyes warm as he looked down at you. “Of course I do.”

He held you gaze as you blinked, lips parting. “You don’t have to say that. I’m not upset. It’s perfectly fine if you don’t want to—really. I don’t know why I even said it—” Your voice sounded meeker than you’d wanted it too, not at all convincing.

“I’m not just saying it.” His voice dropped, edged with that dry Sirius Black sincerity that only ever showed itself when he needed you to believe him. “When do I ever just say things?”

Your brows arched upwards, giving him a long look. A very pointed one.

He huffed out a laugh, tipping his head like he was conceding the point. “Okay—fine, fair enough. But you asked me while I was trying to stop you bleeding out, trying to keep you from staining your lovely little outfit, by the way. I’m a simple man. Can’t focus on so many things at once.”

You couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped your lips, even through the lingering ache of embarrassment. He leaned in and kissed your cheek—soft, warm, forcing any shame away. His voice was quieter when he added—

“But I meant it. I want to move in. I want to be with you. Always.”

It had your breath stilling in your lungs, he felt so much closer now—too close, maybe. Body still radiating heat, arms still looped securely around your waist, thumbs idly tracing the edge of your shirt. You felt flushed again, but not from pain.

Flushed like the blood was torn on where to go—bouncing around your body, from the tips of your ears, base of your neck to the plastered cut by your brow—torn.

“Really?” you mumbled, dazed.

His smirk curved slow and easy against your skin as he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw.

“Reaalllly,” he drawled, voice low and teasing—before capturing your mouth again, this time deeper. Certain. Like a promise. Like a yes.

And you melted into it, the sting of your wounds forgotten in the warmth of his hands, the slide of his mouth against yours—slow at first, like he was savouring the feel of your lips under his, but it didn’t stay slow for long.

The adrenaline hadn’t fully worn off; it simply shifted—into the warmth of his hands roaming under your shirt, the drag of his teeth against your bottom lip, the way your legs instinctively bracketed his hips when he stepped between them again. You were back on the counter, your fingertips tugging at the hem of his vest, pressing into the bare skin just beneath it, desperate to feel something real—him, all of him, grounding and warm and yours.

It was messy and breathless and a little bit frantic, Sirius always had that affect on you. Everything holding a bit more intensity than normal—his palms splayed across your hips, thumbs digging into the dip where your thighs met the curve of your body as his mouth trailed kisses from your lips to your jaw.

“’s good you said yes,” you murmured between kisses, breath hitching as his tongue flicked against your pulse, “because…I already cut you a key.”

He froze just slightly—only to chuckle lowly against your skin, lips brushing your throat. “I know,” voice rough with laughter. “Saw it in your bag last week.”

You pulled back, startled. “You what?”

Sirius grinned, impossibly smug, the kind of wolfish, pleased smile that could undo you far more than anything he’d just done with his hands. “Meant to be a surprise, was it?”

The glare you gave him was weak at best, completely undermined by the way your hands were still under his shirt, now dragging lightly against the curve of his ribs.

He laughed again—loud and delighted—before pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss just beneath your ear, hands sliding to the curve of your back, pushing you into him. “Darling, how did you plan on keeping it a secret when I pack your bag every morning?” he asked, his words broken up by soft bites down your neck, tongue soothing the marks he left behind.

But you weren’t listening anymore.

The kisses had gone from teasing to distracting, and you were already breathless again, head tipped back, clutching at his vest as your thighs pulled him even closer.

You didn’t hear the car pulling around the corner.

Didn’t hear the idle screech of tyres over gravel. Or the distant clunk of the garage door as it creaked open.

Not until your eyes flicked sideways—catching a figure in your peripheral vision. A tall silhouette. Familiar glasses. Wide eyes.

A scream caught in your throat—coming out more like a shocked gasp, a strangled noise as you jolted as your entire body tensed—squeezing Sirius into a startle—nearly losing his footing as he spun around—arms coming up defensively like he thought someone had come to attack you.

Instead, there stood James Potter.

Frozen in the open doorway of the garage.

A bottle of wine dangling uselessly from one hand, and the most horrified, scandalised, absolutely floored expression etched across his face. His jaw hung open. Eyebrows nearly in his hairline. He looked like he’d walked in on a crime scene.

Sirius blinked, chest heaving, hair disheveled. “Prongs?”

His eyes landed on you first: flushed cheeks, bruised lips, a fresh bandage on your forehead, sitting on the bloody workbench like you'd been carefully laid out and devoured. His jaw all but fell off its hinges—finger point at Sirius as his eyes darted between the two of you.

James’ mouth opened and closed. Then opened again—arms lifting as he pointed furiously at Sirius. “What have you—what did you do to her?!”

Sirius opened his mouth to reply, utterly unrepentant, but James was already in melt-down mode, voice pitching as the dots connected in his head.

“This—you’re, I—”A slow, disbelieving exhale escapes his lips. “No,” he says finally, softly, like he’s trying to convince himself. “No, nope. I’m not seeing this.”

You scramble a bit—pushing Sirius out from where he was slotted between your legs, hands tugging your shirt straight. “James, I—”

He cuts you off. “No.” He looks at you, expression unreadable—turning his sights on Sirius, who was rather unbothered considering how unbecoming the entire situation was.

“She’s injured, Sirius. Injured. And you’re—what—ravaging my friend in your greasy murder garage?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

“I was being gentle,”

Sirius shrugged with a light tone, dodging the nudge of your elbow that he knew was coming—and James nostrils flared slightly, like he’s biting down a thousand words.

Maybe you should have stayed silent—let Sirius deal with him, but you didn’t—words muttered beneath your breath, “He’s—he was patching me up?”

Sirius looked like he was biting his cheek to keep from laughing.

James gaped at you, expression mixed between disbelief and confusion “Right. Is that what we’re calling it!?”

You and Sirius stand in silence for a moment, his hand sliding around your waist again. And James drags a hand down his face again, throwing his hands in the air as he spun on his heel, already walking out.

Love is a funny thing.

Fickle and fleeting and conditional in Regulus’ opinion. He never held out for the fantasy, the make-believe kind of love that people spoke about, that poets wrote about, that singers sung about.

It all seemed silly—illogical, unrealistic.

And Regulus was never one to indulge in such pointless notions, he was smarter than that—and he certainly wasn’t holding his breath for someone to swoop in and miraculously change his life.

It was something that Regulus lived by, something he was proud of—he lead with his head not his heart and he would never be fooled by the grandure illusion of love, something so impulsive, unpredictable, volatile.

He was convinced—there was nothing in this world that could change his mind, it was an incontestible fact.

Regulus Black was never going to fall in love. Didn’t believe in it. Couldn’t fathom it.

And to his misfortune, that all came crashing down when he met you.

Gods, he didn’t think himself so disloyal to the beliefs he’d always had, the beliefs that carried comfortably all these years. And worst of all, you had no idea what affect you had on him.

Completely and utterly oblivious to the humungous spanner you threw into Regulus’ life.

Quite frankly, he didn’t know why he was so drawn to you. Maybe it was the way your expression was almost always serene, calmed like still water—reading a room like your knew every thought in it, or the way your voice was always so soft and hypnotic, captivating—having him hang on each syllable.

Or maybe it was how your eyes would light up during Divination or Charms classes, smiling to yourself when you had small break-throughs, or shaking your friends hand in excitement when their charm was successful.

Maybe it was how your lips twitched up before you made a sarcastic remark, or the way every time you spoke to him, he felt himself helplessly leaning to catch the way your eyes glimmered under the low light of the candles, unravelling under your sharp gaze and slow casual touches.

It didn’t really matter what it was, because he was shamefully putty in your hands—without you even trying. So when you accepted his rather poor, emotionally constipated advances—taking the title of his girlfriend, he couldn’t have been more relieved. Finally able to relax into your presence, let you settle the unrest that always thumped deep in his bones—knowing he’s yours and you are his.

Knowing you accepted him, judgement free—a constant anchor.

You were everything to him.

Perfect.

Kind, understanding, patient, had a sharp mouth and an ever sharper mind, fitting into Regulus’ life like the missing puzzle piece. It was shocking—unbelievable.

Too good to be true.

And that’s why things started to crumble.

Regulus was getting hung up on things he shouldn’t have. The minuscule, letting the invasive creeping thoughts control him, making him question everything. The more time you spent together, the more you melted and integrated yourself into his daily life—the more his mood, his day, his week started to depend on you, the more unstable Regulus got in his alone time.

Mind betraying him.

Forcing him to spiral endlessly—for weeks and weeks he would let it fester. Over analysing the way you instinctively just knew what he needed, had something ready to make him feel better—more himself, or how everything began to weigh on your presence. Or how you too easily broke down his walls.

The walls he spent so many years building. They were tall, so unthinkably tall and thick and thorned—but somehow, against all odds, you charted them. Like it wasn’t an insermisable task, like it didn’t endanger your own heart, and put everything Regulus believed in jeporady.

Because they were there for a specific purpose, to protect him—to keep him from getting hurt, to keep him from caring.

It was too much—too dangerous, getting too real, too unfamiliar, too impossible.

That’s what Regulus concluded on, whatever this was that he was feeling—the way he wanted to resign his soul into your open arms—it was wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

He shouldn’t be letting it happen, he was being weak—he was raised better than this. He knew better than this, than to be naiive and allow himself to get so dependant on someone else, when it had been drilled into him that he had no-one.

He was a Black, and that meant in the life, the only person he could count on was himself—it meant that he didn’t need anyone, couldn’t trust anyone.

His parents were right, everyone did eventually leave—it was only a matter of time.

A when, or why, or how—he just needed to wait, because it wasn’t real—you didn’t love him.

He didn’t believe in love, he didn’t even know what it meant. So how? How could he experience it, giving it back—accept it?

It started with the whiplash.

Regulus had suddenly regressed, closing himself off, pulling away from you one day and then the next being warmer—forgetting himself, allowing himself to bask in you like you were his own personal sunlight, pushing away the thoughts that stormed his mind.

But it never lasted long, the relief was not his, that feeling of peace didn’t belong to him.

Because all it took was a moment of solace, a sleepless night alone with his thoughts to go back to square one—and each day, each time he stepped back into you light and let himself thaw—it chipped away at him. And he became less and less free each time, more and more reserved.

Moments when you could see him—truly see him, becoming few and far between.

And you couldn’t do anything, couldn’t get closer without him withdrawing, couldn’t drag him out when he blocked out you out from all sides.

You just grinned and bared it, letting your loyalty, your devotion, your love for him push away the way your gut would wrench every time he gave you the cold shoulder. Ignore the way your eyes would burn when he began to sit further and further away from you.

Always so understanding of him, always making excuses, looking for a different way to look at the mistreatment—and it only made him more suspicious, more confused, more detatched.

It didn’t make sense, how you were still able to love him so earnestly, treat him so kindly—look at him with those same eyes that had his pulse skipping, brimming with warmth and patience when he’d been nothing cruel to you at this point.

For months.

An endless back and forth between giving you a slither of him and then recoiling away—cyclic and unforgiving in the way he’d lean into your touch, grant you a small peace of affection in the form of minimal touches, allowing you to rest your weight on him, letting you into his space, sitting on his bed like you used to. Before taking it all back, tearing himself away from you the second your skin made contact, like you’d burn him—saying your name with a scowl and venom on his tongue in a way that you couldn’t understand.

He once bared his mind, his soul to you so willingly and now you were hanging onto threads—grasping at whisps and tendrils of what you had before—getting crumbs and calling it dinner.

You stopped asking, what was wrong—stopped pressuring him, just stayed. Anchored, stubborn and unwavering in the way you stood by him. He didn’t deserve it, your friends told you—he told you.

When you’d knock on the door to his room, waiting to hear a low come in, from the other side—and today you’d bought him a small potion to help relieve the ache in his spine he didn’t even tell you about. You could just tell—could see the hunch in his back, the strain building in his neck as he kept every muscle in his body taut at all times—you didn’t just come with that. No, you also came with chocolate frogs and a butterbeer in a flask you’d charmed to keep warm.

Simple, yet thoughtful and he couldn’t find it in himself to push your touch away when you inched your way closer to him. Frown forming at the corner of his mouth as you handed him the small sack of goods with a light smile—it was hesitant, didn’t reach your eyes like it used too—didn’t glimmer in the way that it had before you met him.

Before he’d brought you into his shadows, tainted—infected you with the gloom that lived beneath his skin.

He’d done it all: bottled it up, pushed it down, pushed you away—and you still kept coming back to him, with that same sweet affection he didn’t deserve. And he knew why, knew what you’d say.

Didn’t believe it—but he knew.

That you ‘loved’ him, understood him, good days and bad days—bad weeks—included. Loved him so relentlessly, so unconditionally, so fearlessly that it made his heart revolt. The concept alone—the meer notion of it sickening and terrifying and all-consuming.

It couldn’t be real. Love like that doesn’t exist, at least not for someone **like him—someone who is broken, someone so cold and heartless, someone who breaks. This Regulus knew, this he was sure of.

He also knew you wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t prove him right—wouldn’t end it.

And Regulus didn’t know what to do with it.

So he did what he did best.

Rejected it.

Rejected you.

Rejected everything.

Like a switch had flipped in his brain during one of his countless sleepless nights. He’d decided he couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t handle it. Completely cracking under the pressure of your seemingly bountiless patience and love for him—he needed to get away from it.

From you.

He just didn’t understand, wouldn’t allow himself to understand that you didn’t need to justify your love for him, didn’t have a singular quantifying reason for why you never gave up on him, never ran away from his foul attitudes, never looked for someone better, someone more deserving of you.

Because even now, you were still fighting him—pushing and pushing and pressuring him to answer you, to tell you why.

Why now?

Why was he running?

Your voice split through the long, haunting silence that surrounded you both. Regulus could feel the way your gaze tunneled into him—but he couldn’t look up, couldn’t tear his sights from the stone beside his foot. The completely unimportant grey slab seemingly a thousand times more interesting than facing you.

“What?” It left you breathy, huffed out on an exhale like you’d misheard him.

He stood infront of you almost like it were any other day, just stiffer—face stony and emotionless as he spoke again. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Its like his words were of a foreign language, taking extra time to compute his them with confusion smeared across your face, brows knitting higher, spine straightening as you angled your entire body towards him.

“What do you mean?” They were more hesitant this time, quieter.

You still didn’t get it.

Regulus sighed slightly, shoulders raising just barely as he released the breath through his nose, lips pursing into a thin line while he swallowed—”I…I don’t want to…be together anymore, with you. I want to break up.”

For a moment, you waited—waited for him to say something, anything else. Waited for him to continue—say it was a lie, some sick, twisted joke, waited for him to take it back. But you were only met with that same expression, that same god-awful, closed off look on his face you’d become accustom to.

And silence.

More sickening, bone-crushing silence.

He didn’t take it back, he meant it.

And now you were sitting there, frozen. Blood all but curdling in your veins, lungs squeezing in your chest as you looked at him. The lack of movement, lack of response to his words unsettled Regulus, brain suddenly itching to fill the quietness that he’d left for you.

“It’s for the best.”

He spoke so solemnly, like it was already set in stone—final—like he’d already picked out the headstone and set down flowers. Like he was the only one in the relationship, like he was the only one this affected.

The space around you felt colder, larger—like you couldn’t be further away from Regulus if you tried, despite him being just an arms length away.

“Why?”

His stomach churned at the sound of your voice, finally lifting his gaze from the ground to meet yours—and what was worse?

You didn’t even look angry, you just stared at him, expression unreadable—like that face wasn’t yours. Because Regulus knew your face, each dip and curve and wrinkle like the back of his hand—but still he’d never seen it like this.

He couldn’t even begin to describe how you looked at him, how it made his skin burn—how he wanted to crawl out of himself knowing he caused it.

He didn’t even have an answer for your question, didn’t understand why you’d even asked, simply saying, “It just is.”

But that wasn’t enough, that’s not what you asked.

“No.” Regulus was struggling to hold you gaze now, watching your eyes gloss slightly and brows twitch faintly in their place. And yet, your voice was eerily levelled. “Break up—why do you want to break up?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, wracking his brain for something—lies he couldn’t bring himself to say, words that were used simply to evade the truth.

“This isn’t what I want anymo—”

You cut him off before he could finish, “Don’t lie to me, Regulus.”

HIs lips pursed, swallowing the end of his sentence, he took a deep breath, let his lungs fill with air—shoulders rising and falling as they expanded to feul his words—doing exactly what you’d told him not to. Eyes flicking past you, to the wall, the bookshelf, the window—anywhere but your face.

“We’ve…we’ve grown apart.” It came out clipped, like a rehearsed line he barely believed. “It’s not the same anymore.”

You didn’t even blink. “That’s not true.”

Regulus flinched, and it was so slight anyone else would’ve missed it—but you didn’t. You never missed anything when it came to him. He felt his jaw clench, spewing out another cheap excuse. “We’re not working—we don’t work.”

Anything to avoid the truth.

“Say what you mean,” you still pressed, voice still painfully calm. “Don’t hide behind clichés.”

He took a step back, jaw tightening. “I’m not hiding—Merlin, can you just—” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair, fingers tugging hard like the pain would tether him to something real.

“Can you just let me go?” His voice was rising now, cracking at the edges.

The response was almost instant, reflex, too honest—too much for Regulus. “I don’t want to.” He stared at you, stunned into silence. And then, like something snapped behind his eyes, like all the pressure became too much to bear, he said it.

Said another lie—his worst—voiced the opposite of everything he’d ever felt, of everything that was screaming in his body—denying what was so desperate to crawl out of his bones and be seen.

“I don’t love you.”

The words hit the floor between you like a dropped blade. The room seemed to lurch with them.

Your head tilted slightly, like you hadn’t heard him right. “Regulus, don’t—” you began softly.

He took a step back, eyes wide, voice louder now—firmer. “I don’t love you—I never did. I don’t want this.”

It was a lie so cruel, so blistering, it stung even him as it left his mouth. But he couldn’t stop—not now. Couldn’t turn around, not when he’d already thrown the match, not when he needed to cement the end—escape this, free you.

You just stood there, face slowly draining of anything warm or soft—anything you. Like you were being carved out by his words.

And you were still, completely and utterly still.

Too still.

Your expression didn’t twist or crumple or break—it just…emptied. A blank slate, stripped. And the voice that rung in his ears was distant when it finally came, hollowed out and not quite yours. “Is that it?”

He hated it. Hated that tone. Hated the way your body hadn’t moved, how your shoulders were still, how you were barely breathing, hated the way your eyes had gone flat like something behind them had shut down. But he’d already come this far. He couldn’t crawl back now.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he said, voice trembling despite himself. “You didn’t want me to lie, so here it is. The truth.”

His words swimming along the surface of every crevice of your mind, playing over and over—each repeat louder and less forgiving than the last as they sunk in.

You blinked slowly, like it took effort to keep your eyes open. And the way you echoed them, it had his stomach churning, “You don’t…want me.”

Regulus hesitated—just for a second. Then he nodded, curling his trembling hand into a tight fist—fighting every urge in his body as he pushed this words out.

“I don’t want you anymore.”

And there it was.

The final blow.

Your shoulders didn’t drop. You didn’t stagger. But something in you recoiled, like a thread had finally snapped. Like something had fallen—collapse inside you, and you just stared at the stone floor like it knew the answer, like they would fix this.

“…That changes things,” it was more breath than words when you spoke, voice so quiet he almost missed it—even in the silence of the room.

You didn’t say anything else. Didn’t look at him.

Already somewhere else.

Regulus stood frozen for a moment, throat closing in on itself, nails digging into his palms like he could anchor himself to this—this version of events, this lie he’d chosen. Then he turned, slowly, and took a step back. And another. Like each step might hurt less than the last.

But it didn’t.

He couldn’t bear the sight of you anymore—still as glass, hollowed out and barely breathing—so he left.

Left you there—barely there.

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

It should have slammed, he thought. Something should have shattered. His feet moved without permission—down the corridor—carrying him through the castle, through each dimly lit stairwell —but his mind was back in that room. Still facing you. Still staring into those eyes, emptied of everything except the echo of what he’d said.

“I don’t want you anymore.”

The words clung to the walls of his skull like damp smoke. Lingering. Poisonous. He’d made it as far as the staircase to the dormitory before his hand gripped the banister too tightly, knuckles white with strain. His lungs were working overtime, dragging in air that felt too thin to fuel him, too think to drink in.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead into the cold stone, trying—begging—his body to stay still. To stop shaking, to stop feeling like he was going to be sick.

He had done the right thing—that’s what he kept telling himself—he had done the right thing.

Hadn’t he?

You’d looked at him like a stranger. Not angry. Not crying. Just…gone. Like something inside you had been extinguished, like he had reached inside and snuffed it out with his bare hands.

Regulus exhaled shakily, jaw clenched so hard sharp pangs shot up the sides of his skull. He hated this silence, and how it followed him like a curse—haunting the stairwell to his room, ringing in his ears.

It was done. It had to be done.

That’s what he told himself as he descended the steps, a ghost of himself already, walking through the hallway—making it halfway down before he stopped, hand catching the wall like the weight of the lie had finally caught up to him.

“I don’t love you.”

His own voice. His own words. Playing over and over again like a cruel spell.

His lie. A necessary one.

He squeezed his eyes shut, chest tight, suffocating so. His body felt like it was tearing itself apart from the inside. All that control—his carefully practiced composure—was splintering now, cracking open beneath the weight of everything he hadn’t said.

It wasn’t meant for it to go like that. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He’d only wanted to—

He didn’t even know what he’d wanted from saying that, from being so cruel, so harsh to you.

It was too late.

And you hadn’t cried.

That’s what scared him most. If you’d screamed, shouted, sobbed—he could have lived with that. Could have taken the pain you gave back to him and carried it like penance. But the stillness? The empty way you stared at the ground, how you wouldn’t look at him—silent in your surrender.

It haunted him.

Because he’d seen it before. In the mirror. In his brother’s eyes. In all the places love had gone to die. And now it lived in you.

Because of him.

He made it to the dorm room, collapsed onto the curtained bed like the weight of it all had finally won, hands were trembling in his lap—didn’t try to stop them anymore. Regulus just sat there, breath ragged, heart barely beating, watching the dust float in the late afternoon light like ash in the aftermath of a fire.

He thought he might be sick—he got what he wanted. He was completely alone.

────୨ৎ────

It was a nasty, grueling few weeks.

Regulus counted every single second, every moment since he left your room up until now—when he stood in front of it again.

8929 minutes.

148 hours.

43 days.

43 sunrises, and sunsets.

43 sleepless nights without you—spent tossing and turning, eyes wide in the dark, mind screaming with images of you he couldn’t unsee. The way your breath fogged in the air outside the castle, the way your presence had dimmed, barely there—the way you hadn’t looked at him.

That was the worst of it, maybe.

You didn’t look at him anymore.

Not like he was Regulus—not like he was anything.

He’d known silence before, well. And yet, the silence that you brought was so much worse, so much louder—deafening, aching. It rang in his ears constantly now, crawled down his throat and settled in his chest.

Not even the Dreamless Sleep potion from Madam Pomfrey could smother it. Not entirely. Not when he took it night after night and still found himself wide awake at three a.m, sweat on his brow and your name bleeding into the pillowcase.

He still went to class, somehow. Still turned up in uniform with ink-stained hands and perfectly prepared scrolls. But no one missed the way he stared blankly at the blackboard, quill frozen mid-sentence, or the way he hovered after lessons, like he didn’t quite know where to go anymore.

He hadn’t seen you in Potions for over a week, he’d overheard someone whisper that you’d missed Transfiguration too.

And when he did see you—it wasn’t you.

This version of you that walked around, was different, cracked down the middle, moving through the corridors like smoke, like a thought half-finished. Sitting at the end of the long table sometimes, always too far away, always picking at the food you rarely ate. Your friend leaning close, whispering softly, trying to get you to take a bite. You didn’t.

All but disappearing in front of everyone and no one seemed to do anything.

Regulus tried to convince himself he was different. He had done something. He’d protected you—from him. From what it meant to love someone like him.

But that didn’t stop the way his stomach twisted when he saw you shivering beneath the oak tree. The one you used to share. The one he’d kissed you under. The one you called ours.

The sky was a dull, iron grey—flat and heavy with the weight of another bitter day. Winter hadn’t even reached its full height, but the air cut deeper now, sharper, crueler.

You were curled up into yourself, and he hadn’t meant to walk toward you. Hadn’t decided anything.

His body just moved.

By the time he registered what he was doing, Regulus was already halfway down the hill. His legs moved faster than he meant, wind biting at his cheeks, breath catching in his lungs as he neared. Closer now—he could see you clearer. How your shoulders trembled, how your robes were no match for the wind. How your lips were cracked from the cold, cheeks pressed firmly into your knees. And still, you didn't move.

He stopped a few feet away, panting softly, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. You didn’t look at him, acknowledge him at all, gaze stuck on the fields.

It sent a flicker of panic through him.

He hadn’t been this close to you in weeks. And now, standing here, he couldn’t find the words. He watched, swallowed hard, waited for you to notice him—but you didn’t—your eyes stayed still, didn’t even twitch, unblinking.

So he tried—quietly.

“…Y/N?”

Nothing.

Softer now, like a secret he didn’t deserve to say. “Y/N… ”

Still, nothing.

Regulus’ brows drew together, heart twisting painfully in his chest—its like you weren’t in your body anymorew, voice cracking as he said your name again, barely a whisper. He reached out then. Hesitant fingers brushing your shoulder—light and unsure. His hand hovered, then gently rubbed—wincing at the way the cold had seeped into you, coaxing a reaction he wasn't entirely sure would come.

Your name still heavy on his lips when finally—a shift.

Raising your head slowly, as though it weighed more than it used to, your skin was less vibrant that before, bags settling under your eyes—cheeks lined faintly with the texture of your robes. When your eyes met his, he nearly stepped back.

They were empty, hollow in a way that made his stomach churn, sucking in a quiet breath, his lips parting.

But your gaze didn’t last on him for long, you looked away—cheek back to your knees. Eyes back to the field. Turning from him as though he wasn’t there at all. His hand lingered above you, suspended, still colder from the contact, unsure what to do. “How long have you been out here?” he asked gently.

Silence.

He let his hand drop down to yours, fingers brushing against knuckles frozen stiff and tremouring slightly beneath your grip. He flinched at the cold. “Gods, you’re freezing,” he breathed.

No coat. No jumper. Just your thin uniform and your stillness.

“Come inside,” he said, voice soft. “It’s too cold out here.”

Still nothing.

The wind picked up, hair whipping against your face. Regulus reached out again, carefully brushing the strands away. His touch was far too warm, too gentle. It made your body remember how cold it was, suddenly harder to ignore than before.

He tried again. “You’re shaking, Y/N. Come inside. The sun’s setting now.” Grimacing as another harsh gust of wind pushed through you both.

Your shoulders tensed, head lifting slightly, lips pursed, eyes somewhere far away. He was desperate now.

“…Please, love.”

He didn’t mean to say it, he shouldn’t have—but the word slipped out uninvited, naked and aching and wrong. And you stiffened beneath it, flinched even—and slowly, with effort, your force yourself to a stand. Legs trembling beneath you, too long in the cold, and you stumbled on the incline. Regulus caught you before you could fall, arm slipping instinctively around your waist.

But you recoiled from it, shrugging off his touch, taking cautious steps forward, arms crossed tightly against your chest—robes filling with another harsh whip of wind.

He followed behind, guilt burning beneath his ribs.

You made it to the stone arch, pausing with one hand braced against the column. Eyes squeezing shut, lips parted with shallow breaths as you fought off the dizzying headrush.

Regulus was beside you in an instant, too close, voice breaking with an unfair tone of concern. “Are you okay?”

You forced your head up slowly, and his hand was gentle on your back without thinking. But the moment he touched you, you recoiled—again, not once looking at him as you straightened and though you didn’t face him, he could see the deep frown etched onto your lips.

“Don’t touch me,” voice was quiet but cold as you hissed.

He froze, hand falling away from you like he’d burnt you.

You shifted forward slightly, eyes still distant, brows pinched as your forced in more air to your lungs, face still lacking its usual colour, voice dry and cold and cracked by the wind.

“I—sorr—” he stammered out, but his apology didn’t matter.

Becasue you weren’t there anymore—gone—lost to the passing tide of students, fading back into the castle like mist through stone.

────୨ৎ────

The common room was near silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock and the low crackle of dying embers in the fireplace. It was well past two in the morning, yet sleep continued to evade you—as it had for days.

Sitting curled up at the base of the sofa, knees tucked tight to your chest, arms wrapped around your shins in a grip that made your wrists burn. The cold stone floor beneath you seeped into your bones, but it was easier to endure than your bed upstairs, tossing and turning fruitlessly—each time your closed your eyes, images flashing cruelly behind your lids. Couldn’t stay cooped up in your room where silence echoed too loudly and the memories stung sharper.

Your eyes were dry, unfocused as they stared through the firelight—each blink feeling harder than the last, body unmoving save for the subtle tremble in your hands. Unsure when you'd last slept. Or felt like a person.

Then—soft footsteps outside the common room door.

They didn’t stop. They paced. Back and forth. Four, five times—then silence. You didn't move, but your heart thudded once, hard. The door creaked open slowly, hesitantly accompanied with a whine from the hinges. And there he was.

Regulus.

He looked like a ghost of himself. Hair was disheveled, eyes red-rimmed, pale skin slick with sweat as if he’d just woken from a nightmare—or run from one. His shirt clung to him awkwardly, his robe unfastened and dragging along the ground.

He stopped short when he saw you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

And yet the tension snapped taut like wire between you. Your breath caught as he stepped inside and let the portrait door close behind him with a quiet click. He stood still for a beat—like a trapped thing, staring at you like you were his captor and he couldn’t run even if he wanted.

Forcibly pressing his hands together before he ran one through his curls. Scratched nervously at the inside of his wrist. He didn’t look at you until his somehow brought him near the hearth, firelight catching in his eyes like shards of glass.

And he so desperately to be comforted by you, your presence—he had been looking for you—even if he didn’t know it, unconsiously seeking you out, but the way you looked. Eyes sunked in, skin dull, frown etched onto your lips—aimlessly staring into the fire. Though, he couldn’t be sure if he’d cause the frown or it was just permanently smeared across your lips—he hoped for neither.

Despite it all, all he could think about was how he couldn’t physically withstand being further away from you, how his soul was aching to be closer—to reach out and touch you, to make sure you were real—not one of his twisted nightmares that gave him false comfort before morphing into a sight that makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

Right now it felt torturous to be so far from you, and he was struggling to handle it—the fact that he was so weak, seeking you out in desperation. It starts with a small slip, a meer whisper—but you heard it, a quiet i miss you, slipping into the air between you. You do nothing, still sit there still—as though you’d been petrified in place—not looking at him, not acknowledging his words.

A small part of you hoping that maybe he’d just disappear again, put you out of your misery.

But no, the Gods were not kind enough to grant you a moment of peace, a second of solitude.

You hear it again, and you know Regulus won’t let it go—he voice cracking at the end despite being barely above a whispered tone, “…Miss you so so much,” The fabric of the sofa shifts as his back presses against it—settling onto the cold stone beside you.

Body angled entirely towards you.

All you could do was shake your head, push away what you’d heard, swallowing the lump in your throat as you make a move to get up—get away—because as much as you can’t sleep, can’t handle being between the four pillars of your bed.

This?

This was so much worse.

But he latches onto your wrist, almost pleading with you to just look at him, and it almost makes you break—the way desperation seeped into his tone, like he was asking for a slither of mercy from you.

Your other hand twitched at your side, tempted to tear his hand off of you—release yourself and run, but it was the way he looked at you, the way he wordlessly pleaded with his fingers trembling around your wrist, resisting the urge to pull you closer to him. You were still for a moment, brows knit high on your forehead as you looked at him—really looked at him, for the first time in weeks.

He was hanging onto you with everything he had, couldn’t bring himself to let go of you—just whispering you name, throat bobbing as he swallowed, saying it again—breathy on the exhale.

“…Y/N,”

This wasn’t Regulus, he looked like a broken man, a shell of himself—he looked tired. So so tired—the exhaustion evident not just in his face, but in his eyes in the way he helplessly stared at you. Forcing your gaze away.

And before Regulus could stop himself, before he could find it in himself to regret, or feel shame for how utterly pathetic he probably sounded, the words were already hanging between you—floating along the air warmed by the heat of the fire.

“Please stay—please don’t make me let go,”

Your throat all but closed up, drying in an instance as you resigned yourself to your fate silently.

Too tired to fight.

Because even though you knew why he was here, knew why he was doing this—he had no one else, he wasn’t doing this because he loves you, not because he wants you. It was still Regulus, and he still had a hold on you that you could never fight, never push away.

Pursing your lips together, after a short time sitting together in silence—a silence that was heavy and burning and unforgiving—you finally spoke. Deciding to bite the bullet after debating with yourself, because, for all his pride—why was he here now?

Saying softly, “Why are you here?”

Regulus noticed how you didn’t say his name, and it erked him—how much he missed the way it sounded on your lips, in your voice and his voice is hoarse, scratching its way out of his throat.

“Because I miss you,”

You hadn’t look at him since you sat back down, eyes trained on the fire—instantly shaking your head in denial, swallowing the sigh that built in your throat whispering back after a few beats,

“No, you don’t.”

So matter-of-fact, like you already knew, like there was no possibility of you being wrong.

And Regulus didn’t even let words settle into the air before he argued—voice too gentle, almost honest—almost like he meant it. “I do, Y/N—Gods, I really do.” He’s not just looking at you, he staring—boring a tunnel into the side of your skull, as if to make his words more earnest, more believable as he continued, like it was a confession.

“I can’t think about anything else. All I dream of is you. And it won’t stop. You’re everywhere.”

You stayed quiet, throat tight. His words burrowed under your skin, unwanted, unfair. Because he was the one who ended things. Who ran, who doesn’t want you, doesn’t love you.

Now there was no way you could look at him, acknowledge the way his touch still made the surface of your skin burn. Couldn’t bare to look at him when his words all but split you open, rubbing salt in a would that was still too fresh, still bleeding—aching and spiltering while he played whatever this was, this game of push and pull.

There was a short silence, as the words sunk into your skin—and your voice was so tired when it reach his ears, almost fed up as your sentence punched through him, bitterness seeping into your frown,

“You don’t get to say things like that to me anymore,”

It was true, he didn’t—he shouldn’t. Shouldn’t force to you sit with him.

And as much as you words made his throat dry, at the end of the day, Regulus is selfish—and so stupidly, obliviously, carelessly in love with you he can’t bring himself to care—not anymore.

“Will you look at me?” You heard him, loud and clear in your ear, eyes still burning into your profile. But you didn’t look at him, couldn’t—almost angled your body away from him. Letting your gaze continue their endless bore into the ambers of the fire.

But he spoke again, in his voice—in that tone. That breaking, pleading edge that undid you every time, that would continue to do so.

“Please, Y/N,”

His fingers just barely tightening against your skin when you finally—finally—met his eyes. And Regulus had to actively fight against every single cell in his body not to lean into you. He knew he was being unfair to you, cruel even but it was only now dawning on him the extent to which he needed you, Desperately. Like he would simple perish if you hadn’t look at him, like every moment out of your sights was torturous.

And he didn’t say anything, just look at you—and with that same frown that made is chest ache, that same frown that had been on your lips for weeks, you asked, voice low and trembling, “Why are you doing this?”

But he didn’t answer. Didn’t know how. All but ignoring your words, his mind splintering under the pressure of how he feels, how he can’t ignore it anymore, how he can’t pass it off as anthing but what it actually is—your presence the only thing tethering him to anything real.

Instead he asked, brokenly, “Can you say my name?” All you wanted to do was look away. Wanted to stop feeling like you’d fall apart just from the weight of his gaze.

“…Please. Say it like you used to.”

He was looking at you like you were all he needed like, like you would save him, like you were all that tethered him to the room, to the earth—and every nerve in your brain was telling you to run, because look at what happened last time you gave in. But it was impossible—Regulus drew you in in a way you’d never be able to fight off.

It was barely a whisper, faintly pushed out on what felt like would be your last breath—surrending yourself to whatever will damn you as you let his name leave your lips, “Regulus.” Even just that light, faded whisper was enought to have him crumbling.

Because it was the first time you'd sounded like you in weeks, because it was his name on your lips, because it was you and he was already barely holding on, already so so weak.

Leaning into you unconsciously, eyes glued to yours and your breathing stuttered. If there had been any other sound that the fire cracking and your own breath you would have missed it, the vague, low whisper of his voice as his hands inched up your wrist—ghostly.

Almost like he was talking to himself, “Gods, I'm a coward—a liar,” he murmured, voice clawing its way out of his throat. “I lied—”

But you cut him off with a quiet plead, trying to stop him from saying something he doesn’t mean, to stop him from saying something that would break you, “Regulus, don't—”

But he couldn’t stop.

“I love you,” he said. Again. Again. Over and over like it was the only truth that had ever mattered, like a mantra that might save him from the damnation of not having you. “I love you so, so much. Too much.” He was breathless, like words spilling out like he’d never had any other thought in his brain.

“I can’t ignore it anymore. I can’t go on like I don’t breathe just for you. I’m sorry I ran. I’m sorry I lied.”

You were already shaking you head, even as he closed the space between you, even as your could feel his breath fanning over you—his hands trailing up into a delicate hold on your face, because you should’ve stopped him.

Should’ve pushed him away—set a boundary.

But you didn’t.

Couldn’t—couldn't fight the desire to relish in the warmth of his touch, in the press of his forehead against yours. His eyes were darting across you face, searching yours for the contempt he so rightfully deserved, but as always—there was none.

And though they were tired, sleepless eyes, they still look at him in a way that made his heart race, that made him aware of every cell in his bones, made him feel like he was drowing and floating all at once.

Regulus silenced himself with a tentative kiss to your lips—hoping, praying you wouldn't pull away, wouldn't let him break in your arms when he finally had a moment of peace, a moment of you after so long.

It was a desperate and yearning kiss, dizzying as , pulling you in closer as if he were trying to live under your skin, barely breaking away to whisper over and over, ‘I love you—I’m sorry.’ Hands cradling your face with such a painfully gentle, reverent touch as you pulled apart, breathless—but he didn't go far, pressing his forehead into yours again, internally fighting the urge to push his lips back into yours.

Just whispering endless apologies, “I’m sorry I hurt you—let my fear ruin us, m’sorry,” but you stopped him, shaking your head to silence him. You didn’t want to think about it right now—it would be too much, too taxing.

Simply bringing him to a standing with you and lying on the sofa you’d been leaning on, murmurming a small not now, under your breath. It was cramped, a tight-fit, practically on top of each other—but it didn't matter, you didn’t mind.

If anything regulus was thankful for the contact, for the skin-on-skin. Letting the unrest in his bones dissipate slowly as you rested your head in his neck, finger tangled into the curls at the nape of his neck, cardind through and twirling your fingers in them—his own hands restless against your skin, roaming gently—palming at you with shaky hands.

Like you weren’t real—as if making sure you wouldn’t suddenly dematerialise against him.

Sighing into your touches as he finally felt the quiet lulling call of sleep, for the first time in weeks. Because it he had you, because he was with you—his salvation, his love. And as much as he knew you had a lot to talk about, it could wait—there was always tomorrow.

He didn't care that he didn't deserve you, not right now—not when he had you in his arms, warming his skin.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit hypocritical?”

There was a long beat of nothingness.

Then another. And another.

A tormented silence veiled the room the second Regulus’ final word left his lips, riding on the air between them and settling heavy in a cruel, unforgiving manner.

The word hypocritical sounding in his head over and over.

If Barty looked like he was going through the five stages of grief, it seems he barely made it half way, flitting between denial and anger before subsequently settling on the latter. His face said it all, as it morphed with each word, forced out on a pinched breath.

“The fuck are you on about?”

His eyes didn’t match the sharp tone of his voice at all, instead they swam with panic and an almost lost aching that made Regulus lips purse together. Barty was already sitting up, scrambling to a stand with a clenched fist and tight jaw, as he pushed a hand through his hair—already on his way out. Back towards Regulus as he spoke, words gritted and hushed.

“Don’t act like you know everything, when you really fucking don’t.”

With that, the door was closed behind him and Barty was gone.

Regulus was really starting to resent that door, far too often being left on the other side, staring at it—stressed, winded—conflicted. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to happen after he said it, but by then it was already out—already splitting the air between him and Barty before he could stop it. What was worse?

Regulus just sat there—still, emotionless—while his friend all but fell apart infront of him, any and all words falling dead on his lips.

When he sunk back into the bed, glancing at you beside him, asleep, blissfully unaware of the rift he’s just parted—his stomach churned. The soft pillows beneath his head, the warmth of your presence beside his did nothing to quell the unsettled stirring that had started inside him.

Maybe you wouldn’t notice, maybe Barty would cool off and it would all be fine—maybe he could take it back.

Each maybe more unlikely than the last, all with outcomes that the mere thought of gave Regulus a migraine.

Barty stood outside the door for a few moments, chest heaving, brows pinched high on his forhead—didn’t even know where he was going, it was already well into the early morning and he honestly just wanted to sleep.

Couldn’t go back up there because not only were Regulus there but it was you and Regulus. He much rather the Gods smit him than be suck in that room, watching Regulus watching him watching you.

A low swirling burn settled at the base of his chest.

Come to think of it, maybe storming out wasn’t the best choice, it probably made him look suspicious, like he had something to hide.

And he did, he knew he did.

The thing about secrets is, they’re only pleasant when they’re easy to hide, when you’re in control of them. So right now, lying face down on the lumpy sofa in the common room—Barty has never felt more out of control in his life.

This really was torture—surely the Gods were finally punishing him for all the near heart attacks he’d given his father, because even now, with his face smooshed into the pillow, he could still smell you—where you’d been just hours ago. At this rate he’d be insane not before long.

Groaning as he flipped, watching the warm flames of the candlelights flicker—he tried to push down the reoccuring pang that split through his chest.

── .✦

Sundays were nice.

Lazy morning lie-ins, no Head Girl duties.

The day was looking very promising. Heat from Regulus’ body warm around your middle, one of his arms slung comfortably across your waist. Holding you close even as you twisted and turned—drifting in and out—accepting the warm, tempting embrace of sleep with open arms.

Regulus had felt you shift slightly, heard the little hums that built in your throat as you teetered on the edge of waking up—he’s been awake for quiet some time—early bird habits. Just watching.

The slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint flinches of your brows as you dreamed deeply, how you curl into yourself and by extension into him periodically. He didn’t want to wake you, didn’t dare move—trying to savour the small fraction of tranquility you’d be granted before you have to deal with the inevitable storm that brewed the whole night.

Because Barty didn’t come back, still hasn’t stepped foot in the room—Regulus waited, hoping to maybe smooth things over, take it back even. But he didn’t return and Regulus didn’t leave the confines of his room.

Even as the morning drawled to a close and the early afternoon began, instead he focused his energy on admiring you, and your sleeping form. And when you stirred, twisting and turning towards him, lips pushed into a small pout—he really couldn’t help himself.

Planting a careful kiss to the exposed skin of your neck, and you didn’t move, still fighting off the pressing light of the sun in the room, holding onto the whisps of sleep.

He leaned forward again, lips ghosting over the curve of your jaw, and that got you to stir. Not fully awake, not yet, but enough that you sighed, contentedly, one arm reaching up to match the curl lazily around his middle. Eyes were still closed when you mumbled, voice scratchy and slow with sleep, fingers twitching where they rested against his ribs.

“Morning…”

His lips were still ghosting over your throat when he chuckled, low and husky, “It’s not morning anymore.”

Still, your eyes stayed closed. A little smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you turned your head slightly to chase the feel of his lips.

So he gave in.

Kisses fell like rain across your skin—first light and tentative, then firmer, slower, more intent. He brushed one beneath your jaw, then over the hollow of your throat, and when you shifted again with a sleepy sigh, he took the opportunity to drag his mouth lower, teeth grazing gently before sucking at the delicate skin there. And it made you shiver.

“Reg,” voice whispered, soft as a secret, a breathless note of fond exasperation in your tone.

“You’re awake now,” he murmured into your neck, voice muffled by your skin.

You didn’t argue. Didn’t push him away. Instead, your fingers found their way into his hair, lazily combing through the dark strands as his mouth continued its slow, indulgent path along your collarbone.

It was languid, affectionate, the kind of intimacy that didn’t rush. His hands slid over your waist, pulling you closer until you were nearly on top of him, legs tangled fully now, heartbeats pressed close together.

The kisses deepened slightly, becoming more indulgent, more possessive. The kind that left marks. Your skin warmed beneath his mouth, laughter bubbling in your chest when he found a ticklish spot and refused to stop, dragging another helpless giggle out of you.

“Stop, stop—Reg, I swear—” you squirmed, breathless from laughter, your cheeks flushed pink and body warm with affection.

He finally let up, grinning with pride, brushing your hair back from your face with a fondness that felt so achingly gentle it almost hurt.

You were glowing. That post-sleep, post-laughter kind of glow that made his chest ache.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he might blink and find himself alone again.

You met his gaze, cheeks still warm, lips kiss-bitten and curved.

“You’re looking at me like I’m your religion,” you said with a teasing arch of your brow, and he just leaned up to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your jaw.

“I might be,” he whispered.

You groaned, dramatic, as you pushed lightly at his chest. “I’m going to have to cover all of this up, you know.” You tilted your neck, already feeling the soreness blooming beneath your skin.

You made to roll out of bed, sheets sliding off your legs—but his hand curled around your wrist.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said, voice low and gravelly. He tugged you back toward him, guiding you to straddle his lap. You blinked down at him, amused and a little breathless, hair falling like a curtain around your face.

“Regulus,” you said, half-laughing, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t want the morning to end,” he confessed, softly, eyes dark and steady as they held yours.

You leaned down, kissed him slow, whispered against his lips, “Thought it wasn’t morning anymore.”

He smiled into the kiss, hands resting on your hips—and for a few minutes, the world narrowed to just the two of you. Quiet and golden and slow.

Until your stomach rumbled. Loudly.

The kiss is broken with a startled laugh, hiding your face in his shoulder. Regulus chuckled too, low and pleased.

“Alright,” he said with a sigh, fingers brushing your waist, “We’ll feed you.”

You rolled out of bed, finally, pulling on yesterday’s clothes as you glanced around. The room was empty, apart from the two of you. You stretched, arms over your head as you grinned over your shoulder.

“Look at that. Even outlasted Junior,” you joked lightheartedly, tugging your jumper back on.

Regulus didn’t say anything at first—just hummed.

Pushing away the urge to spill his guts, to tell you how the word hypocritical had torn something raw between them during your slumber. You were halfway down the stairs before you turned and whispered, “I’ll meet you in the Great Hall—give it five, yeah?”

He nodded. Forcing his lips to curve into a small smile.

“Five.”

The second you disappeared down the steps, the quiet hit him like a stone wall.

Sitting there, at the edge of the bed, chest hollow, the lingering warmth of you already fading from the sheets. The sound of your laughter still echoed faintly in his ears, but it was drowned out by the noise in his head.

His face subconsciously scrunched, exhaling shakily—running a hand roughly over his face as he turned his sights forward—the bed across the room was still empty.

── .✦

Lunch was already well underway when Barty finally showed. He was late—noticeably late—just after the pumpkin juice had been poured and the several servings of lunch had been eaten. Quietly—wordlessly. Like a shadow slipping between the cracks of the castle stone.

Barty moved as if he were walking through water—slow, heavy, like every step cost him something. His hair was rumpled, flattened oddly on one side like he’d slept curled up somewhere unforgiving. His tie was askew, barely knotted, and his shirt was half untucked at the waist.

You caught sight of him first.

Of course you did. You were always aware of Barty—he had a way of commanding attention when he entered a room, usually by flinging himself into it like a spark looking for something to set alight. But now, he lacked something.

His eyes didn’t scan the table like usual. He didn’t offer that lopsided smirk he wore like a badge of honour or drop some cutting, clever remark that made Evan laugh and Regulus roll his eyes with a small smile. He just sat down—dropped into the bench at the far end as though gravity had forcibly yanked him there.

Your gaze unknowingly followed his every move—mindlessly observing out of habit.

But he didn’t meet your eyes.

Not even when you said softly, “Hey, Junior,” your voice as casual and light as always—and he all but deflated at the sound, sinking into his seat as he forked around at his plate, remaining uncharacteristically silent—maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, but didn’t care.

You glanced at Regulus, but he was staring at his plate as if it was the most interesting thing in the room, silent—posture was too straight. Too carefully composed—everything unnaturally taut. The silence that veiled the far end of the table apon Barty’s arrive was unnerving, the cloud that loomed over him, seeping and bleeding out into all of you—bringing the light chatter to a slow halt.

In an almost pitiful attempt to ease the glooming aura that had swathed the table, you spoke again—keeping your words pressureless, ambiguos—simple, “Sleep alright, J?”

He finally moved—but not to look at you. Instead, he turned his body subtly away, like the space between you wasn’t enough, making it wider instinctively—like he wanted to escape your presence. Reaching for his fork, twisting it between his fingers, he still didn’t speak.

Not a word.

Picking at his food like he didn’t recognise it—like it might turn to dust in his mouth.

Evan broke the brittle tension that accumlated in Barty blatant disregard, nudging his shoulder with his elbow in a half-hearted attempt to lift the mood. “Oi, saw you passed out on the common room sofa last night. You’re lucky Mulciber didn’t hex you in your sleep for stealing his nap spot.”

He smiled when he said it, teasing, waiting for the usual witty jab in return.

But Barty didn’t laugh. He didn’t scoff. He didn’t even twitch.

He just set his fork down—still clean—and stood.

Your brows furrowed as you watched him, lunch having grown cold and forgotten—your stomach twisting.

“Juni—”

He was already gone.

Just like that. Walked away, tray untouched, head bowed low, his shoulders curled in like he was trying to fold himself out of sight. He didn’t glance back. Not once—not at Regulus. Not at you. Not even at Evan, who looked after him with a baffled, half-offended expression.

It took a few moments for the silence to leave after Barty’s departure, but when it did, it was only partial. Regulus still was silent, body ridgid, looking down at his plate as if he could read the truth in the gravy lines. And you could see it. The tightens in his jaw, something swimming behind his eyes, something that rarely did.

Something you couldn’t quite place.

You sat just as still has him, appetite gone—the table feelinf significantly more empty than it had done before. Barty’s absences, his behavious heavy on your mind—his silence louder than most.

Maybe it was a hangover, or he’d not slept well—you tried to tell yourself—maybe he’d gotten a letter from home and bile and rage was building in his stomach like always. Maybe he just needed some time to himself.

Deep down you knew something was wrong, and you had a feeling Regulus knew what it was.

You did looked for him that evening. Though it felt as though he’d vanished into thin air.

First the Observatory—his usual haunt after dinner when the halls grew quiet and the scent of parchment overpowered the smell of food still lingering from the kitchens. But the corner by the ledge was vacant, the nights air twisting and whistling around the hollow room—leaves whirling against the cold stone.

Then the common room. Empty. Or rather, full of people who weren’t him. The sofa was unoccupied, and Evan was lounging upside down on one of the armchairs, chatting aimlessly to Mulciber and Dorcas.

“Have you seen Barty?” you asked.

Evan shrugged. “Nah. Maybe he’s off brooding somewhere. You know how he gets.”

But that wasn’t how he got. Not like this. Not without a word.

Turning the corner to the boys’ dorms, letting yourself in.

His bed was untouched. Not in the usual disheveled way Barty left it—sheets tangled, pillows dented, covers barely hanging on. No, this was wrong. This was still. Cold. Hollow. His side of the room was lifeless.

The books stacked by his bedside table hadn’t moved. The record player you’d both stolen from the Muggle Studies classroom one night two springs ago sat quiet, lifeless. Shoes still tucked beneath the bed, as if he hadn’t bothered to wear them. As if he’d disappeared barefoot.

You stood frozen in the doorway for a short while, scanning the room. Regulus was sitting cross-legged on his bed, wand in one hand, idly levitating a quill and not meeting your eyes.

“You don’t know where he is?” you asked, quietly—padding over to stand by Regulus’ bed, leaning against the pillar as you watched him. There were a few beats of silence, “No,”

Just that.

You waited.

Waited for the rest—for the truth tucked between the syllables, for the explanation that would unravel this knot in your chest. But he didn’t look up, didn’t offer anything else.

“You don’t think there’s something wrong?” your voice was more pinched than normal, unrest settling into the end of your question—and he could feel your eyes on him, the weight of your gaze heavy on his form. But he knew if he tore his sights away from the quill, he’d break. Guilt already bubbling in his stomach from the second you entered the room

Instead Regulus just gave a slight shrug, words muttered and unconvincing. “Maybe he needs space.”

“From what?”

You were only met with further silence—not a word. Not a glance. Just the soft scratch of the floating quill tracing invisible lines above his bed, a tight purse of his lips.

The air was too still, as you stood by him, just barely an arms length away—and when you turned on your heel—bones aching under the suffocation of the room and the sting of Regulus’ avoidance.

You left. And the quill dropped onto his lap as the door closed behind you, rubbing his hand over his face as his turned—looking at the empty space beside him that would usually be occupied by you with a frown. Regulus couldn’t bring himself to glance over to Barty’s bed, as the sounds of your footsteps became further and further away.

The next day was no better.

You saw the back of Barty’s head once in the corridor before lunch, but the moment he registered your voice—your steps—he turned down a side hall and disappeared before you could call after him.

At dinner, he never showed. Everyone far to entertained by Evan, who was too busy charming a salt shaker to sing Celestina Warbeck to notice, but you did.

You noticed—you waited.

The day after that, and the one after. The world kept spinning like nothing had shifted, but your stomach ached with the weight of uncertainty. You tried brushing it off at first—told yourself he was being dramatic, maybe annoyed with something trivial. That he’d get over it.

But the days stretched longer. And lonelier.

And Regulus…Regulus never said a word.

He kissed you when you met in hidden corners. Touched you like he meant it, with fingers that found comfort in each inch of you—but he never brought Barty up. Never acknowledged the empty space he left behind, struggled to meet you eye each morning when your gaze would linger on the empty space left for him.

But you felt it—everywhere.

In the way your laughter always died quicker now. In the way you avoided the right side of the dormitory when you were there resting with Regulus—approaching the door and waiting there—in hope of hearing anything other than Regulus’ manicured silence on the other side—approaching less often all together.

You felt it in the ache behind your ribs when you sat too long in silence wandering the place you’d walk together, emptier now—missing the loud, crass, ridiculous everything that was there with Barty.

Because now he wasn’t.

And you didn’t know why.

And it was driving you mad.

Because it had been days.

And you couldn’t pretend not to care anymore.

Not when Regulus still refused to meet your gaze when you said his name. Not when Barty’s side of the room looked like a memory, not a life. Not when your chest burned every time someone said, “He’s probably just being Barty,” like that explained the way his absence scraped against your heart like a harsh burn.

You couldn’t be in that room anymore. Not with Regulus and all his silences. Not with the evidence of Barty’s absence staring at you with every step.

So you stopped going, spending more time in your own room—preoccupying yourself with Head-Girl duties, subsequently leaving Regulus’ room even colder. Your absence adding to the weight of Barty’s—thick, heavy and aching on his shoulders.

You did eventually catch sight of him after an entire week.

Just a flicker—a blur of pale hands and windswept curls vanishing around the corner near the Arithmancy wing. He was alone. For once. No sanctuary of a crowded corridor to shield him.

Instantly you were speeding up, robes filling with air as you all but chased after him, calling his name once, twice. “Barty!”

He faltered—just for a heartbeat, his steps slowing in a way that made your chest bloom with hope, only for seconds later to be filled with a burning dread.

Because he darted.

Actually ran.

Rounding the next corner so fast he nearly slipped, hand catching on the wall to steady himself as his robes flared out behind him like smoke. By the time you turned after him, the corridor was empty. Only the echo of your own breath met you in the stillness. It was clear now, it wasn't just absence anymore.

It was evasion.

Deliberate. Cold. Unwarrented

Lungs burning violently beneath your ribs, more from the sting behind your eyes than the pace of your pursuit. You stood there for a long moment, chest rising and falling unevenly. Cold stone walls pressed in around you, and something sharp curled inside your ribs.

He was hiding.

From you.

And Regulus wasn’t saying a thing, acting as though addressing anything would sear the surface of his lips. He just looked at you and somehow that was worse than his silence, the apologetic look everytime he caught you looking for him—and he still wouldn't break, wouldn't say anything.

Which left only one other person who might’ve done something.

Lunch was a blur of noise and clatter when you stepped into the Great Hall. But the moment your eyes landed on your brother—halfway through a sandwich at the Gryffindor table, seated comfortably between Sirius and Remus—it was as if everything else dimmed.

You crossed the room slowly. Quietly—with purpose.

The hum of chatter softened in your wake as students caught the shift in the air. Even the portraits seemed to pause mid-gossip, eyes flicking toward the slow storm building in your stride.

As always, James didn’t notice until you were nearly on top of him.

Turning just as your shadow fell across the table, his expression freezing mid-bite. The sandwich hovered in front of his mouth, a bite missing, and his eyes widened when they met yours—dark, unreadable.

You said nothing at first—just stood there.

The weight of your silence pressed down on the entire Gryffindor table like a hex. James blinked, mouth still full. “Er—something wrong?”

Your eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in your jaw—a few more long moments of silence spread between you, words leaving with a sharp bitter bite that made him wince internally. “What did you do?”

The entire table went still.

Even Remus leaned back slightly, brows raised—as though he was bracing himself.

James slowly finished chewing, swallowed, then furrowed his brow—confusion splitting across his face in a loud smear. “To who?”

“Barty.”

The name landed like a dropped knife, harsh

James straightened. “What would I want with Batshit Barty?”

He was speaking far to causally for your liking, too flippant—as though you weren’t talking about one of your closest friends, someone you held close to you, like you weren’t talking to him about your Sirius or Remus.

You didn’t dignify him with answer—just kept staring. Cold. Quiet. Fury simmering beneath your skin, and your silence clearly spoke loud enough for you, because James was rushing out more words in order to quell your impending rage.

“I haven’t done anything,” he added, holding his hands up as if warding off a spell. “Why are you assuming—?”

“Don’t lie to me.” Your voice was low, unnaturally calm but razor-edged. “He’s been gone for days. He won’t look at me. He’s avoiding Regulus too. And you—” your voice caught, jaw tightening, slight desperation seeping into your tone as your looked at James.

It had his lips pursing into a tightline, sighing at the upset he could always easily recognise—easier than other, knowing it would settle into your brows. The telltale signs of your stress showing in the vein that appear by your temple when you spoke.

“—You never liked him. You’ve always hated that he was close to me. So tell me what you said.”

James couldn’t look more genuinely confused if he tried, glancing between his friends and back to you wide-eyed. “I didn’t say anything. I haven’t even seen him. And yeah, I don’t particularly like the git, but you’re seriously jumping—”

“You don’t have to like him. But I know you. You think he’s weird. You think he’s a bad influence.”

“Because he is, Pop! You’re smarter than—”

Your palm crashed onto the table, hard enough to rattle the silverware, and he cut off mid-sentence—mid insult. The other coming onto his shoulder in a deceivingly light and friendly manner that cause his stomach to sink.

And awful silence blooming in the wake of the sharp thud.

You leaned in, voice shaking with restrained fury. “If I find out you had anything to do with this, James, I will hex you so thoroughly McGonagall will have to reassemble you from a mist.”

You straightened, scrowl twitching into a slight frown. Turned.

And walked out of the hall without another word.

From two tables down, Regulus watched the entire scene unfold—eyes distant, shoulders stiff, guilt flickering like a shadow across his otherwise calm face. His fork remained suspended in mid-air, untouched, as you disappeared from view.

And back in the corridor, just outside the doors, you paused and pressed your hand against your forehead—squeezing your eyes shut, attempting to purge the stress from your system, calm your pulse.

But it didn’t.

And it wouldn’t not—until you found him. Found out what’s wrong, where he was hiding, what you’d done.

You were on a rampage.

There wasn’t a corridor you hadn’t stormed down, no secret niche or alcove left unchecked. Even Peeves stayed well out of your way—whistling obnoxiously from a distance as he watched you barrel past with a glower fit to set the suits of armor clattering in fear. Spenting the better part of the weekend pacing through every corridor of Hogwarts, searching high and low for Barty, and each fruitless encounter had worn your nerves even thinner.

Because Barty was somehow nowhere.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right.

And the sharp, twisting frustration inside of you had nowhere to go, compounding into a taut knot at the base of your throat.

You tried, really tried not to take it out on Regulus.

It wasn't his fault.

He’d done nothing wrong, to your knowledge.

But tension—agitation—clung to you like smoke. Coiling in your chest and bleeding in to everything, even when you tried to bite it back—every brush of conversation feeling too short, too raw, as if a single wrong word might set the whole damn world tilting sideways.

Once again you found yourself wandering aimlessly down the third-floor corridor, shoulders rigid with barely restrained tension, brows furrowed so tightly it felt like they might permanently etch themselves into your skin. You barely even register Regulus' soft footsteps approaching from behind—he was always quiet like that—until you felt his presence like a cool shadow against the hot buzz of your thoughts.

Turning your head just as he parted his lips to call your name, catching him in the corner of your eye. He stopped short, his frown mirroring the one set stubbornly into your mouth. You did offered him a brittle, tight-lipped smile—a poor excuse for reassurance—it looked more like a twitsed grimace.

And if anything, it made his chest ache more.

Without a word, Regulus stepped into your space, fingers curling gently around your wrist and tugging you toward the darker recesses of the corridor, into the small corner by the old statue of the One-Eyed Witch.

There was no resistance, just barely dragging your feet in the direction he pulled you. A small part of you thankful for the anchor he always offered without needing to be asked.

Pressing you gently into the shadowed alcove, until your back met the cool stone wall. He shifted his body just enough to shield you from view, although this part of the castle was rarely trafficked on weekends.

His hands rose, cradling your face with a reverence that made your chest tighten all over again, thumbs brushing carefully over the creased furrow between your brows, trying to smooth away the silent worry written across your skin.

Dipping his forehead to rest against yours, and for a long quiet moment, he just held you, breathed you in—your frustration, your stress, your tangled turmoil. His thumbs continued their soothing pattern across your skin. Tilting your chin up, compelling your gaze to meet his, and his frown mirrored your own; a mirror of silent worry and guilt. Then, slowly, he dipped forward, pressing the softest kiss to your downturned lips.

You didn’t react at first.

The first few pecks were like kisses to a stone statue, your body slumped, your heart still swimming in anxious disarray.

But Regulus didn’t stop.

Didn’t falter.

He kissed you again—softer, longer—then pulled back only enough to kiss you again, not giving you room to slip away. His hands stayed at your jawline, steady and patient, and he began peppering kisses across your cheeks, your forehead, the corners of your mouth.

Another kiss. And another. Light, coaxing—careful not to demand anything from you, just to offer, patiently, again and again.

Something in you cracked.

Your body betrayed you.

Lips twitched at the corners—a small, stubborn curve, despite yourself when he abandoned your mouth to scatter kisses across your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the tip of your forehead. Feather-light, stubborn little pecks that demanded you feel them.

Encouraged, he pressed one firmer kiss to your mouth, and this time you lifted your hands, rising from your sides almost timidly to touch him.

When he finally pulled back slightly, searching your face, he only waited a heartbeat before dipping back in—catching your mouth with a little more insistence, refusing to let you disappear into your own mind. Fingers reached up to clutch at the soft fabric of his jumper—he smiled into you and pressed a firmer, surer one against your mouth.

“I’m sorry, amour,” he whispered against your lips, voice low, aching.

Your heart gave a painful, traitorous little leap at the pet name. Inhaling shakily through your nose, burying your face against his chest for a moment, drinking in his familar scent, basking in his touch. Mindlessly fiddling with the hem of his jumper.

"No, I'm sorry," you murmured, voice cracking a little. "I’m not upset with you, Reg...I'm just worried."

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

And the guilt in his chest sharpened, too heavy to ignore. He could stomach Barty’s silence, could even stomach his own cowardice, could wait out the tension until it cracked and splintered and healed, but you—with your small, fragile voice—you were his breaking point.

He didn’t know how to tell you it was partly his fault. That if he’d kept his mouth shut weeks ago, none of this would have unraveled.

So he just leaned in, kissed you again—longer this time, letting it sink deep—until he felt the tightness begin to seep out of your shoulders, melting you into him. Thumb tracing idle, affectionate circles over your cheekbones, and when he pulled back, he gaze flickered briefly down to your now parted, lightly flushed lips.

He didn’t stay distant for long.

Ducking back down, connecting your lips again, this time more hungrily, a low, almost frustrated sound rumbling in his throat. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you into the cool stone.

Letting his lips trail over the curve of your jaw, over the vulnerable line of your throat—slow and indulgent—between kisses he mumbled, almost inaudibly,

"Can we talk after dinner?"

Your mind was fogging under his touch, head tipping back slightly against the wall to grant him better access.

"Mmh?" you managed breathlessly, hands sliding up to tangle in his hair.

"In my room," he clarified, lips brushing your pulse point. "After dinner. Please, amour."

"What is it?" you whispered.

He only hummed, not willing to say more here, kissing down the slope of your neck.

"After dinner," he murmured again, "I’ll explain everything, my love."

And you could only nod, dazed, sighing a soft "okay" into the heated slither of air between you.

Hands rising to clutch the front of his jumper as his lips found their way back to yours. One hand sliding into the back of your hair, cradling the base of your skull, as if you might disappear if he didn't hold you close enough.

It was feverish, unsteady, all the bottled-up emotions from the past few weeks bleeding into it—frustration, longing, guilt, tenderness. Regulus made a soft, almost groaning sound against your mouth, low and aching, pressing you into him like he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance between you.

Indulging so much that neither of you noticed the faint creak of stone shifting nearby.

Hidden behind the narrow crack in the floor—the secret entrance to Honeydukes cellar—Remus had frozen halfway up the ladder, wide-eyed and horrified.

He’d only peered out because he thought the coast was clear—but instead, he found himself staring straight at you and Regulus, very much entangled, very much devouring each other against the wall.

Remus’ entire brain short-circuited. His mouth falling open wordlessly, heart thudding violently in his chest, a surge of secondhand panic washing over him.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered under his breath, scrambling backward so fast he nearly slipped off the ladder entirely.

“What?!” hissed James, who was climbing up behind him, bag and pockets full of stolen treats. Remus dropped back down onto solid ground, his face burning crimson, shoving James hard in the chest to get him to retreat.

“Peeves,” Remus blurted, voice cracking horribly. “Peeves is lurking—we can’t use this exit. Go, go!”

He practically herded James and Sirius back down the ladder, his hands flailing in frantic gestures, as if trying to physically wipe the mental image from his brain.

James scowled. “We’ll have to take the library passage, then—wait, why is your face redder than a howler—"

“DON'T ASK,” Remus snapped, voice embarrassingly high-pitched, speedwalking so fast Sirius almost tripped trying to keep up.

Behind the stone wall, blissfully unaware of the near-catastrophe, you and Regulus finally broke apart, both breathing hard, foreheads still touching. You opened your eyes slowly, and the look you found waiting for you in Regulus' eyes nearly knocked the breath from your lungs all over again—too fond, too devoted it made your chest ache.

His thumb brushed once more over your now kiss-swollen bottom lip, almost reverently.

There was a sudden, heavy tenderness hanging heavy between you—delicate and infinite and frighteningly real.

“I missed your smile, amour,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, but the vulnerability in it was unmistakable.

You felt your mouth twitch—the smallest of smiles threatening your lips, despite everything.

Regulus caught it instantly, his eyes brightening with something fierce and boyish and unguarded, something he usually hid so well.

He smiled—that same smile that softened all his sharp edges—and ducked his head, pressing one last kiss to your forehead.

“What?” he said, voice lighter, teasing. “You are my love. It’s just a fact.”

You groaned, half mortified, half wanting to curl yourself into him and never move again—slipping out of the alcove with a muttered sound of embrassment, dragging him by the hand into the empty corridor before he could say anything else to make your cheeks any hotter.

He followed you without protest, his fingers laced securely with yours.

Regulus chuckled low in his throat, clearly pleased with himself, and gently unwound your fingers from his jumper, lacing them with his own instead. Thumb stroked back and forth over the back of your hand.

After a moment, he squeezed your hand gently and said, softer this time, “After dinner. My room. Promise me you'll come.”

── .✦

It had been weeks, and they were grueling and awful and torturous if Barty were to describe them.

And he simply couldn't do this anymore.

The pressure of it—the churning, festering wrongness under his skin—was unbearable now. Like he was carrying it all inside his ribs and it was rotting him alive.

He’d hardly even been in a room with Regulus since that night. Or you.

And he could see it—the way his own twisted form of self-preservation was affecting you, how even in his absence he’d managed to damage you still. And he knew Regulus didn’t say anything—he saw the altercation you had between your brother, and how your presence dwindled in his room. How you would b-line to your dorm, and when he’d sneak into get his clothes that the room rarely every smelt like you anymore.

The guilt was eating him from the inside out, because it wasn’t just you, it was Regulus as well—walking around with a sharper scowl, shoulders hung heavy like the weight of everything and more rested on them. Not just his usual brooding self, almost dejected.

Barty couldn't sit still. Couldn't hide away anymore, ignore his feelings—pretend he wasn’t thrumming with an ugly combination of stress and something even worse—something desperate and raw and afraid.

He needed to find Regulus.

He needed to talk to him.

To fix it. To deny it. To clear it up or scream about it or something—anything but this awful limbo where the walls felt too close and his own skin didn’t fit right.

It didn’t matter that it was Sunday evening, that the castle was heavy with the scent of dinner being prepared, Barty knew Regulus’ habits like they were tattooed on the inside of his skull. Always disappearing for an hour or two before the evening rush—locked away in the luxurious marble bath, soaking in stupidly expensive bath oils, hidden behind thick clouds of steam and silence.

A ritual.

A sacred hour Barty had historically never dared to interrupt.

Right now, he didn’t care.

He just needed to see him. Needed to fix this suffocating knot inside his ribs before it swallowed him whole, before he ruined more than he already had. Feet moving faster, almost without his permission, carrying him through the dimming halls—running solely on adrenaline now—an ugly, volatile thing—praying it wouldn't abandon him at the wrong time.

The Prefects' corridor was empty, getting into the hall much easier than he’d imagined it to be.

Barty didn’t pause.

He wrenched open the heavy door to the bathroom and slipped inside like a shadow.

The air was thick inside—warm and wet and heavy with the smell of eucalyptus and something honeyed and rich. The world narrowed down to the soft sound of lapping water, the gleam of marble under golden torchlight, and the pulse hammering wildly in Barty’s ears.

And there he was.

Regulus.

Sitting at the far end of the enormous sunken bath, his slender back turned, arms lazily draped over the marble edge. Head tilted back, curls slicked down against his skull, pale throat bared to the ceiling.

He looked—

Gods, did was he a sight—almost ethereal, like something out of a dream Barty had never realise he had. His voice broke out of him before he could stop it, desperate and cracking—disrupting the perfecting calculated stillness that Regulus lounged in.

"Reg, listen I—I need to talk to you for a sec—"

At the sound of his voice, Regulus stirred. Moving so slowly, like waking from some deep underwater dream—a quiet exhale escaping his mouth, softer than he’d ever thought it could be, especially aimed at him, and almost grateful.

He turned towards Barty, lifting himself slightly against the marble, water sliding down the planes of his torso in glistening rivulets.

And Barty's pulse almost came to an abrupt stop.

Because what he saw made his blood run hot and cold all at once. Regulus’ chest was bare—slick, gleaming, flushed—and littered with deep violet hickeys—glistening under the soft golden light, hickeys blooming down the line of his throat, across his collarbones, scattered over the delicate cage of his ribs.

Your marks.

Your mouth, mapped all over him like he belonged to you.

Barty's gaze snagged helplessly on the dark purple bites smeared along Regulus’ skin, breath caught in his throat like it had been punched out of him.

He'd seen Regulus shirtless a hundred times. In locker rooms. In summer. It was nothing new.

But this—

This was different.

Regulus wasn’t just bare.

He was marked up.

Claimed.

Barty—he couldn’t fucking breathe, completely forgotten how.

Eyes glued to the way Regulus’ slender arms flexed as he shifted, the blue veins in his forearms prominent and glistening under the wet light. On the way his water-slick hair clung to the delicate slope of his cheekbone. On the lazy curl of steam rising off his flushed skin.

He was stupidly, obscenely beautiful—and it made something inside Barty twist so hard it hurt.

And then, just to add to it—as if the knife needed to twist even deeper—Regulus’ mouth shaped his name. "Junior," Regulus breathed, soft and fond and almost worried—his dark eyes scanning over Barty’s frozen figure, open and vulnerable and achingly glad to see him.

He could feel it, unbareably so—prevalent and impossible to ignore. The heat crawling up from the base of his throat, spilling across his cheeks, climbing up the tips of his ears until it felt like his whole skull was on fire.

Struggling, he wrenched his gaze away—disgusted with himself, with this, with everything—heart hammering like a snare drum.

"—Shit—sorry, this—" Barty stammered, voice cracking in half, "—this is a bad time, I'll just—I'll come back—"

He spun on his heel, desperate to get out, desperate to run before he did something unspeakably stupid. Behind him, he heard Regulus shift in the water with a sharp splash—heard the panic in his voice:

"Wait—! Junior, wait—"

But Barty was already gone—stumbling back through the doorway, half-blind with the sheer force of wrongness splitting him in half—barely making it three steps out of the prefect bathroom before he slammed into you at full force.

The collision was so sudden, so jarring, that both of you went down hard—the weight of it knocking the breath out of your lungs as you hit the cold stone floor with a painful thud, a startled groan slipping out of your lips apon impact with the dense stone. Papers were flying, scattering like feathers in the heavy, humid corridor air.

Barty landed half-sprawled infront of you, frozen stiff on the floor, like he couldn’t even think about moving. His chest heaved as he gasped in a broken, desperate breath—wide, panicked eyes locking onto you, like you were the only thing he could see.

It was you.

Of course it was you.

The person who had put their mouth all over Regulus’ body, the person who he branded themselves into every one of his thoughts, the person who he longed and ached for.

The person whose touch was still probably lingering on Regulus’ skin, sinking into his bones.

The person that Barty wanted nothing more than to be a victim of your touch.

"Treasure," he breathed out—helplessly, instinctively—voice cracked and raw.

And your eyes widened, glassy almost immediately—shimmering with emotion you didn’t even have time to name as your gaze swept over him, lingering on the flushed panic stamped across his face.

You barely registered the throbbing ache in your hip or the smarting scrape on your elbow—the only thing you could focus on was him—the way his brows were drawn up like it physically hurt him to see you in pain, the way he looked so panicked and almost small for the first time.

The heavy door behind him hadn’t even fully clicked shut yet when it swung open again.

And there—padding out into the corridor, steam still clinging to his skin—Regulus.

A towel hung precariously low around his narrow hips, damp from where it clung to the drops sliding down his chest and thighs. The cold castle air hit him hard, raising goosebumps along his marked, glistening skin—the fresh hickeys stark and scandalous against his usually-pristine appearance.

His mouth was still open mid-protest, the words "No! Barty, wait—" faltering into shocked silence as he stumbled into view...and saw you both. A messy heap on the stone floor, your papers strewn everywhere.

He froze.

Like someone had Petrificus Totalus-ed him in place.

For a wild, frantic second, he didn’t move—didn’t even breathe—looking for all the world like a soaked, deeply miserable, and highly stressed cat caught in a trap.

An uncontrollable flush blossomed up Regulus’ neck to the tips of his ears—a vivid wash of pink climbing higher and higher, curls dripping onto his forehead, his arms flinching as if debating whether to clutch the towel tighter or bolt for the nearest shadow.

It was so bad, so insanely bad, that a broken, half-hysterical laugh threatened to rise in your throat—but it caught halfway up when the door beside you creaked open again.

And out stepped Remus.

Still mid-conversation with you—or, he had been—before the disaster of the corridor scene snatched the words right out of his mouth. He took one look at you and Barty tangled on the floor, another at the papers littering the hallway, and then—

Then he saw Regulus.

Or more specifically, Regulus' towel-wrapped, heavily marked figure standing shame-facedly in the middle of the hallway like a half-drowned mythological disaster. Nearly naked Regulus. Remus’ eyes went comically wide.

His jaw opened slightly—then closed—then opened again.

The way he stared at Regulus was enough to make you want to evaporate on the spot. It was almost impressive how many emotions raced across Remus’ face all at once; shock, horror, confusion, secondhand embarrassment.

He looked back at you with a look that screamed: what the fuck, oh my god, how?, all at once, his ears flushing a brilliant shade of pink under his shaggy hair.

And Regulus—blessed, doomed Regulus—only then seemed to realise what he was showing the entire damn corridor.

He made a noise—something between a choked squeak and a groan—and scuttled backward, towel slipping dangerously low, practically tripping over his own feet as he yanked the bathroom door closed behind him with a deafening thud.

The silence that followed was mindnumbing.

Barty shifted stiffly beside you, hands fumbling to brace himself against the floor, scrambling up awkwardly, movements jerky, clearly desperate to get away—to vanish into thin air if he could. But before he could bolt, you latched onto his arm—firmly, fingers curling tight around his sleeve.

"Junior," you said—clear yet rough and certain—making him still where he stood, as if he couldn’t do anything but listen to the command of your voice. Flinching slightly at the sound of it, his name on your lips—something raw and aching flickering across his face—and he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t even if he wanted to, because it was you.

Meanwhile, Remus—poor, long-suffering Remus, had very clearly decided that he wanted absolutely no part of this scene anymore.

Without a word, cheeks still burning, he inched carefully backward—edging into the room he'd just come from, shooting you one last deeply pained, bewildered glance before disappearing with a whispered, awkward "Yeah, I'm just—I'll go."

The door clicked shut softly behind him.

And then it was just you and Barty.

Standing in the wreckage of the hallway—papers still scattered everywhere like shrapnel, your heart hammering painfully hard in your chest. Fingers were still gripping his sleeve and he could feel you, the warmth of your palm radiating through his robes—both of you remained still, as if locked in that moment.

And when he finally lifted his gaze from the floor—finally looked at your for the first time in weeks—he looked at you like you were something half-sacred, half-terrifying—something he didn't know if he was allowed to touch or beg for or run from.

The moments drags, time slowing around you in the corridor as you wrack you brain desperately for words, anything, but your mind has gone blank—emptied under the pressure of Barty’s eyes on you. Something swimming in them that has your throat drying as the seconds go by. Hyperaware of him being close to you, him being infront of you after weeks of search.

You’re startled out of your thoughts when his arm shifted under your hold, stepping closer to him in desperation—convinced he’d run away the second he had the chance.

“Junior,”

That was all you said.

It sounded breathless and pinched and honestly pathetic—but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Eyes locked on where you held him, as if he wasn’t real—like he was going to dematerialise spontaneously and you’d be left standing alone again.

A frown was etched onto your lips as you contemplated releasing him, he’d already made it so clear that for whatever reason he couldn’t stand the idea of being near you. And yet you were holding him hostage in silence, heart hammering beneath your chest—lump heavy in your throat preventing any speech from leaving you.

He still had a pained expression on his face—lips parting when you gaze rose to meet his—eyes softening when your voice reached his ears, meek and so unlike you, lacking your usual spark, your casual confidence.

“I—I’m sorry.” your voice trembled, brows pinched on your forehead—and he saw the way you struggled to swallow before you continued, “For whatever I did—Junior, I’m sorry,” Each word reaked with desperation and a quiet hopelessness that made Barty’s heart plummet in his chest.

His muscles were taut under his skin, rigid with restraint—wanting to run away from the inevitable and pull you into him all at the same time. Words lingering in the air between you, fragile and lost. He could practically feel them sink into his bones, heavier than any hex he’d ever been hit with.

For a long, suffocating moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you.

Looked at you like you were a burning star about to collapse under your own gravity—something so devastatingly bright that getting close might kill him, looked at you with a helpless frown and pinched brows.

His jaw clenched once, twice, before he finally moved—slow, like it hurt him.

“Don’t—” he choked out, voice cracking mid-word. His hands balled into fists at his sides, nails digging crescent moons into his palms. “Don’t apologise.”

Your lips pursed together, blinking up at him with an expression he never wanted to see on your face again, and most certainly hated the fact that he was the reason for.

“I—” He stopped himself, raking a shaking hand through his hair, sending damp strands curling wildly. His whole body seemed to vibrate with a barely-restrained, chaotic energy, like a wire pulled too tight. “You didn’t do anything, treasure.”

And it only made you frown deepen, fingers twitching around his wrist—still holding him like he was some fragile thing that would vanish, that would crumble under any sort of pressure. Barty was too weak for his own good—surging forward and pulling you into him, arms wrapping tightly around you in an embrace.

He shouldn’t be doing this—holding you close this when your boyfriend was just a door down. He shouldn’t be indulging himself in you when even just this small touch means something different to him. Means more.

“You didn’t do anything,” he repeated, voice low and raw and agonisingly sincere.

“I’m the one—fuck, treasure, I’m the one who—”

His words caught in his throat when he felt you squeeze him, palm on his back—your warmth so soothing yet tormenting all at once and Barty just leaned into it. Leaned into you like a man who had nothing left—no fight, no resolve—just signing himself away. Pressing his face into the your shoulder, “I’m sorry,” he murmured back, words muffled against your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry, treasure. I—”

You didn’t let him finish, leaning away slightly—staring up at him with a look in your eyes he couldn’t understand, it lacked contempt, it didn’t have anything other than warmth and acceptance he couldn’t fathom. Affection, that he surely didn’t deserve.

“Junior. J—stop. You don’t need to explain right now,” you said, voice almost lost in the thick, suffocating air between you. “Let’s…let’s just go sit somewhere, yeah?”

But you barely had a chance to move before you heard the soft creak of a door behind you.

Regulus.

He stepped out of the bathroom, fully clothed now, his shirt rumpled and clinging slightly to his skin in places where his hair was still damp, curling against the nape of his neck and forehead in soft, messy tendrils. Water dripped lazily from the ends, soaking into the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice.

His eyes found you first, standing frozen there in the corridor with Barty half-folded against you. Then his sights slid over to Barty, and the way Barty clung to you like if he let go, he’d come apart completely.

The way you cradled Barty’s wrist with your fingers—so gentle, so careful, as if you were holding something precious you didn’t know how to save. The look in Barty’s eyes—raw, unguarded—made Regulus’s chest ache in a way he didn’t want to name.

He just…watched for a moment.

Air stretching, heavy and taut and almost suffocating, until finally Regulus moved.

Walking up to you both in three long, silent strides and, without a word, reaching out—taking both of your wrists, Barty’s and yours, into his hands. Grip wasn’t rough, but it was firm. Inevitable.

He turned on his heel and tugged you both along. Neither of you resisted. Neither of you even thought to resist.

Following him blindly, feet scraping against the stones, the flickering torches blurring past in your peripheral vision. Barty stumbled once but caught himself, and you never once let go of him. The corridors twisted and turned, and after a short while, the only sound was quiet breaths mixing with the distant noise of dinner echoing from the Great Hall.

After a few minutes, you found your voice, smaller than you’d have liked, “Reg, where are we going…?”

He didn’t turn around, his fingers just tightened slightly where they held both your wrists, turning another corner. “Don’t you think we need to talk?” he said, his voice low, too neutral—almost strained.

You didn’t answer—letting the question hung unanswered between you.

Eventually, he pulled you both into the Slytherin common room—empty now—pulling you up the stairs into their room, the heavy velvet curtains drawn across the windows, casting the room in muted twilight. Only the faint golden glow of the sconces on the walls lit the room, flickering like dying stars.

Regulus let go of you both, stepping back a pace as if to give you space—maybe even to steel himself. The three of you stood there in the centre of the room, awkward and uncertain, like strangers stranded in the aftermath of a storm—the door clicking softly behind you and resonating around the silence in the room.

Barty’s shoulders were tense, hunched inward like he was bracing for a blow. His gaze was fixed stubbornly on the floor, refusing to meet either of yours. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, useless.

Regulus watched him quietly, no anger in his eyes—no disappointment, even. Just something quieter, heavier. Patient.

And you—

You hovered uncertainly, your hand still loosely wrapped around Barty’s wrist, your thumb brushing absently against the bone like you hadn’t even realised you were doing it—you never noticed, but Barty did.

His eyes flicking down, locking on the sight of your hand—so unaware, so comforting and yet it still made his chest tighten. Only then did you notice, feeling the way he tensed under your touch, following his gaze with dread pinching in you when you it landed on your hand.

Pursing your lips together, you pulled away—forcibly squeezing your own hand—fingers curling into your palm ike you could hide the upset bleeding into your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice raw and breaking. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Barty flinched at your words, frustration flickering across his face before he scrubbed a hand roughly through his hair, curls falling even messier over his forehead.

“It’s not that—” he blurted, wincing. “Well—it is—but it’s not—” He stammered over the words, grimacing as he fought them, fought with his mind and tongue. “It’s not you. You don’t—you don’t make me uncomfortable. I just—”

He stopped, pressing his lips together hard like he could physically hold the rest of it in.

The silence stretched, pressed into him like it knew he would crumble, like it was waiting from him to shatter. And your gaze on him did nothing to quell his pulse sounding in his ears, it was open—confused, waiting. Unfairly patient.

Regulus’ stare was sharper—cutting into him with a quiet sort of knowing that made Barty’s stomach twist painfully.

And Barty couldn’t stand it—he couldn’t breathe under it.

“I—I thought I could do this. But I can’t. I’m sorry, I just—”

The panic was building, an unforgiving, rising tide in his throat, tight and hot and unbearable. He turned sharply, desperate to escape the weight of their stares, the suffocating walls, the unbearable truth burning under his skin. But before he could get more than a step away, Regulus moved—swift and sure, catching his wrist in a firm grip. “Stop.” Regulus said quietly, with an iron edge that brooked no argument. “If you don’t tell her, I will. It’s not fair anymore, Junior.”

And Barty's whole body jolted at the contact, stiffening like he’d been shocked. His stomach flipped—violent and sick and dizzying—but not just with anger. Not just with shame.

There was something else, something strange and warm tangled in it, something he didn’t want to name, something worse. The feeling of Regulus’ fingers curling around his wrist—soft and careful and familiar—it sent a pulse of heat ricocheting through him so abruptly that for a split second he was convinced his lungs had collapsed.

And it made him angry—at himself, at everything.

Because how dare his body still react like that, still betray him, even now when everything was clearly already falling apart?

He ripped his arm free like it burned him, staggering back with a harsh, broken sound caught in his throat, spinning around so quickly he nearly stumbled, chest heaving, his face crumpling with a sick, helpless kind of revulsion—at himself most of all.

“You think this is fair on me?!” he snapped, voice ragged and raw. He couldn’t even see Regulus’s face anymore—couldn’t bear to—only saw the wreckage burning behind his own eyes.

“You think I want this?!"

The words tore out of him, vicious and choking. "I wish—" And he breath caught, clawing its way out and trapping itself in his throat, as he continue words swallowed in the distress of his tone.

"I wish more than anything that I didn’t feel like this!"

His hands were shaking now, curled tight into fists, nails digging hard into his palms until he swore he felt blood bloom beneath them, knuckles white and tremouring under the tightness.

“What do you want me to say—huh, Reg?!” he demanded, a frantic, wounded sound punching out of him. “You want me to shout it from the rooftops?! Fine!”

He should have stopped himself, should have thought about it, taken a second to just stop. But Barty was always too volatile, always too crass for his own good—never able to find the middle ground, especially when it comes to emotions, so used to pushing them away. Hiding them under layers and layers of blaśe and cocky remakes. And now it was all spilling out of him like bile, thick like oil, staining and tainting the air as left him.

“You want me to say ‘I’m in love with your girlfriend!?’”

He wasn’t finished—the final truth tumbling out, raw and bleeding, voice cracking under the pressure,

"I’m in love with my best friend!"

And with that—it wasn’t just the room that stopped—Barty was use the whole world had, spinning on its axis, tilted upside down. He froze, his own heartbeat roaring in his ears, realisation crashing down on him like a tidal wave too heavy to survive.

The weight of what he’d said—what he couldn’t ever take back—slammed into him so hard he staggered, a half-step backward, dazed and wide-eyed.

You just stood there, staring at him, lips parted slightly, eyes glistening under the dim candle light—and Regulus didn't say anything. Didn’t even move either.

He just watched Barty quietly, his face frighteningly still, but his grey eyes were no longer guarded. They swam with something achingly gentle. Something like understanding, sympathetic—and he wanted to be sick, wanted to scream.

Because even now, even after everything—part of him still ached, wanting to reach for you, part of him wished Regulus’ hand was still warm and familiar against him. Still wanted to feel the impossible, burning comfort of being held by you.

And that?

That was the cruelest part of all.

already started part 4....were GETTING THERE YALL