#mauraders fandom

James is already laying in bed, when Regulus decides to crawl in. 

He shuffles, incessantly, adjusting the blankets profusely, trying to get comfortable. James drapes an arm out, resting it atop his pillow, simply resting there. It’s almost like he’s giving him an invitation—permission, in a sense—to snuggle closer. To be closer. 

So, that’s exactly what Regulus does, trying not to overthink the interaction too much. 

His head rests against James’s bare chest, his hand comes up to rest over his heart, palm flattening against his chest, feeling the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath his skin. The calming, practically soothing motion lulls Regulus into a state of relax. But, what that also does, is drag him into a state where all he can do is think. 

Thinking. One of his greatest weaknesses. 

Regulus’s entire body grows stiff, tense, muscles locking up, as his mind burrs onward, buzzing like electricity passing through an electrical current. He takes a breath, calming himself. Then—

“What are we… doing, James?”

There, that’s the question that’s been haunting Regulus, ever since he first started seeing James. Not that he can help it, but it is the first time he’s saying something. Speaking on the matter like it's worth even the amount of attention it gets. 

James’s head turns, slightly, craning to look down. Regulus shifts, head pulling back to get a clear view of James. The man has a deep, drawn out frown plastered onto his face, tugging at his skin, causing wrinkles to form. Regulus hopes those wrinkles aren’t permanent. Lord knows James doesn’t need concerned lines on his face, due to him. 

“What do you mean?” James asks, confusion dripping out with each word. 

Regulus exhales, feeling frustration build higher within his chest. “I mean—” he pauses, struggling to find the right words to explain. James waits patiently, only moving to turn over onto his side, forcing Regulus along with him, until they are face-to-face. 

“With this,” Regulus gestures between them aimlessly. “With us.”

“Oh,” James responds like he wasn’t expecting Regulus to say that. Like he’s almost confused as to why it’s even being discussed. What has James been thinking? “I uh… I was hoping we were already together?”

Regulus blinks at him, stunned. Is he being… serious?

“Are we? Together?” he asks, his body struggling to comprehend the shock that’s perpetrated his body, mind still reeling from the confession. The admission. 

James shrugs. “I would think so. I mean… look at us.”

Regulus looks between them, feeling like a complete idiot for doing so. For taking him so literally. His gaze finds James’s own. Hazel eyes stare softly at him. Warmth hidden deep within. 

“What I mean is,” he elaborates, tone holding kindness, cradling him with care. “We’re laying in bed. Together.” James’s hands move in the darkness of the room, reaching out to take a hold of his own. His voice drops, lower, growing quieter. There’s an edge to it. “Sweetheart,” he continues. “I would seriously hope we were together… considering the fact you’ve—y’know—met my kid.”

Regulus’s face flushes, bright and hot and burning with embarrassment. He opens his mouth to say something, when the door to the bedroom creaks open, the sound of small, soft, gentle footsteps pitter-patter their way into the room. 

A silent, warm chuckle bubbles its way up into his chest. The irony isn’t lost on him. Quite the timing, Harry has. The four-year-old toddles in way further into the room, round the bed, before stopping on his side—the side Regulus in at. 

His emerald green eyes are huge, wide, growing even more, sparkling like the gemstone in a way Regulus didn’t know were possible. 

There’s an innocence within him, a gentle curiosity that seems genuine, yet a quiet, hidden reserve of hesitation, like he’s afraid of something. Something almost identical to rejection. Rejection. Why on earth would a four-year-old be afraid of rejection? He’s four. 

“Can I come sleep with you?” Harry’s voice is softer than the silence itself. The sound glides smoothly against his skin, drifting its way, stabbing him directly into the heart. 

Regulus is moving before his mind has time to process everything. “Of course you can,” he replies, voice just as quiet, just as soft. He didn’t know he was capable of speaking with the level of care and gentleness he just did. But, he supposes, one can learn new things, every day. 

He reaches out, lifting Harry up into the bed with a grunt. Placing him down, Regulus tucks the child in between him and James, fingers automatically finding their way to his crazy, messy, brown curls, running through them, as if trying to tame them. 

Harry snuggles closer, black cat plushie in hand, body inching toward him, not his father. 

Regulus stills, briefly, but it’s enough. His gaze tears itself, unwillingly from Harry, glancing directly up at James, eyes wide like he’s finally realising something. 

James smiles, lips quirking upward into a knowing grin. 

He bites, he lashes out, he defends himself against his tormentors as violently as he is hurt. He doesn't just sit there and 'take it' without retaliating, he doesn't bury his head into his pillow at night and cry.

But he is a victim nonetheless.

Just because he fights back doesn't mean that his suffering is any less valid than any other bullying victim. Just because he doesn't cower in fear of the mauraders doesn't mean that they were anything less than his abusers and bullies.

And the maurader fans love to lap up his resistance and call it "rivalry" so that James and Sirius are painted in a more positive light.

The truth stands that Severus Snape was a victim to their heinous actions.

Sirius chose the order to protect James and everyone knew it.

Regulus chose to be a death eater to protect James but nobody knew it.

authors note: using the "Oh, look at the stars! Ursa Major… so beautiful!" "We're inside. Those are just ceiling lights." prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting

upcoming content: fluff!! alcohol mention, james is drunk. food mention.

word count: 1.2k

masterlist

James is practically a furnace draped over you, all heavy limbs and warm breath against your neck. His arm is slung across your shoulders, the other flopping uselessly at his side as he stumbles through the hallway with you bearing most of his weight. Every step is an exercise in patience and balance.

"You're really strong, y'know that?" James slurs, giggling into your hair. "Like... like a dragon. No, wait. A... a really buff flower. My strong flower.”

"I wouldn’t have to be if you could walk straight," you huff, fumbling with your keys as he leans more heavily into you. "James, for Merlin’s sake — can you stand up for two seconds?"

"Standing is overrated," he declares dramatically. "Besides, this is nice. I like this." He tightens his arm around you, swaying on his feet. "You’re warm. An' soft. Like... like a pillow." He tucks his face further into your neck, standing at an angle that can hardly be comfortable given the many inches of height he has on you. Yet, he practically purrs with content as one of his hands snakes up underneath your top, fingers skating across your waist making you giggle.

"James," you try to sound firm, but the way he presses a sloppy kiss to your neck makes it come out more like a laugh. "Stop distracting me. I’m trying to get the door open."

"M'not distracting you," he says, grinning against your skin. "I’m being supportive. 'S different."