#regulus drabble

Remus, in particular, always felt a quiet tug of wonder whenever his gaze drifted to you both. 

You, his younger sister, whose heart had always seemed so open, so achingly bright. 

And beside you, of all people, sat Regulus Black. Who so rarely let anyone breach the carefully built walls around him.

It still surprised Remus, no matter how many times he saw it, the way Regulus changed in your presence. 

The shift was subtle but unmistakable, a softening in his expression, a quiet attentiveness in the way he leaned towards you. 

His eyes, usually so cold and distant, seemed warmer when they lingered on your face. He spoke more easily with you than with anyone else, his clipped words touched with something that almost resembled tenderness.

And you, in turn, seemed utterly at ease beside him. Where others might have been intimidated by his silence, his sharp glances and sharper tongue, you only smiled, filling the spaces between his words with your own easy warmth. 

And though it had once seemed strange to Remus, this pairing, he could no longer imagine it otherwise.

Sirius, of course, noticed it all as well. He often watched the two of you with a wide grin, elbowing Remus with a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. "Look at them," he would murmur, voice low with amusement. 

"So bloody obvious and yet so impossibly dense."

And Remus could only shake his head, a fond exasperation curling in his chest. For there was no denying it anymore. You and Regulus were in love.

Anyone with eyes could see it, could feel the invisible thread that bound you together, taut and shimmering with all that was left unsaid.

Yet somehow, you both remained oblivious to the truth of it. Friends, you called yourselves, though the word seemed a poor fit for what passed between you. 

Friends did not linger in each other’s gaze quite so long. 

Friends did not find excuses to brush fingers, to sit a little too close beneath the wide sky. 

Friends did not look at each other the way you did, as though the world had narrowed to a single point and everything else had faded away.

It was almost maddening to watch. And yet, neither Sirius nor Remus could bring themselves to look away. 

They had been here themselves, after all. They knew too well how love could creep in slowly, unnoticed, until it filled every corner of the heart. 

They knew how blind one could be to one’s own feelings, how fear and uncertainty could bind the tongue and still the heart.

It ran in the family, perhaps. This stubborn obliviousness. This tendency to circle around love instead of stepping boldly into it.

So they watched. From beneath the archway, from across the courtyard, from the windows of the library. And with every glance they exchanged, with every sigh and shake of the head, a quiet resolve began to take root between them.

Because someone had to do something. Someone had to help you both see what was already written so clearly in every glance, every smile, every lingering touch.

And really, who better to take matters into their own hands than two Marauders, hopelessly in love themselves, determined to see their siblings find the same happiness?

Remus and Sirius shared a look. Then their eyes shifted to Barty, lounging nearby with that infuriatingly charming grin.

They didn’t say anything. 

The idea came instantly. The execution would be easy. And with Barty involved, jealousy was practically guaranteed.

-

It had almost become a habit now, the way your afternoons led you here. The quiet comfort of the library’s farthest corner, a sun-drenched alcove of old wood and older books, always somehow waiting for the two of you. 

No one really disturbed this place, and fewer still disturbed the pair of you when you were here, heads bent close over parchment and ink.

You sat with your chin propped in one palm, quill twirling idly between your fingers, the open pages of an Arithmancy text long abandoned in favor of quieter conversation.

Regulus sat across from you, sharp-boned and poised as ever, though the usual hard set of his mouth was softened now. 

His hand moved absently, the tip of his quill tracing light, meaningless shapes in the margin of his notes. His gaze, though, was not on his work.

It was on you.

"Your hair is falling into your eyes again," he murmured, voice low and even, with a quiet patience that few others ever heard from him.

You blinked up at him, a little smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. 

"Is it? Oh." You pushed the strands back clumsily with your fingers, only for them to tumble forward once more a moment later.

And then, without another word, Regulus reached across the table, slow and careful, brushing the stray locks gently behind your ear. 

His fingers lingered for the briefest moment against your temple, the lightest of touches, and when he drew his hand back, something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

You smiled again, bright and unbothered, your voice a soft lilt that always seemed to wind beneath his defenses. "Thank you, Reggie!"

He only gave a faint incline of his head, as though it were nothing, though you noticed the way he lowered his gaze to his notes with a sudden, almost studious focus.

"You know," you said after a moment, voice bright with amusement, "you would probably get more studying done if you stopped doodling in the margins."

He gave a soft huff of breath, almost a laugh. "And you would probably get more studying done if you stopped daydreaming so much."

You gasped in mock outrage. "Rude."

"Entirely true," he replied smoothly, though there was a faint, fond curve to his mouth now.

Before you could retort, the distant thud of boots echoed through the stacks, followed by the low murmur of familiar voices.

"Oi, there you are," came Sirius’s voice, louder now as he rounded the shelves, Remus close behind him.

Regulus straightened in an instant, the soft warmth you had coaxed from him retreating as though a door had been quietly closed. 

Remus and Sirius were an easy, familiar sight together. Remus with his gentle, thoughtful gaze, always steady, and Sirius with all his wild charm, half a grin playing at his mouth as he strode toward your table.

Remus’s eyes softened when they met yours. "We were looking for you," he said with quiet fondness, reaching to ruffle your hair with one large, calloused hand. 

"You were supposed to meet us after quidditch."

You laughed, swatting at him playfully. "I forgot."

"She forgets everything," Sirius said cheerfully, flopping into the empty seat beside you, far too comfortable. 

"Probably forgot we even existed. Here she is, holed up with my charming little brother, plotting who knows what."

Regulus gave him a look of cool indifference. "If we were plotting, you would not know about it."

"See what I mean," Sirius grinned, nudging you with his elbow. "Utter delight, that one."

You giggled softly, glancing between them. "Honestly, I am just trying to get through potions."

Remus settled beside Sirius, leaning comfortably into his side, fingers twining absently with his. 

Sirius nudged you again. "And you dragged poor Reg into it with you? Cruel."

"I did not drag him," you said with mock primness, smiling at Regulus, who only inclined his head slightly, gaze unreadable once more. "He came willingly."

"I can hardly believe that," Sirius teased, though there was no real bite to his words. If anything, a note of genuine curiosity threaded through them. 

Even now, after all these years, he still marveled quietly at the strange friendship that had grown between you and his brother.

Regulus remained silent, though something faint touched his eyes when he glanced your way.

Remus watched it all with a thoughtful expression, his gaze lingering on Regulus a moment longer than usual. 

There was a quiet understanding in his eyes, an old awareness that never quite left him. He had always seen it, the way Regulus shifted when he was near you, the way your presence seemed to gentle him.

But as always, you seemed blissfully unaware of it.

And Sirius, ever impatient, could hardly help himself. 

"You know," he began, voice bright with mischief, "we were just saying how you two spend more time together than anyone else these days. Should we be worried? Or are we finally going to admit that this is something more than just... studying?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "It is friendship, Sirius. Nothing more."

Regulus, for his part, said nothing at all, though a faint tension had crept into his shoulders.

Remus only smiled softly, squeezing Sirius’s hand in silent warning. Not too much, not yet. They would need more careful coaxing than that.

But as the four of you sat there in that sunlit corner of the library, conversation weaving around old books and quiet glances, the truth hung between you like the dust in the air. Obvious to anyone who cared to look.

And though you and Regulus remained blind to it still, there was a quiet certainty in Remus’s heart as he glanced at his sister, then at the boy who watched her when she was not looking.

It was only a matter of time.

“You know,” Sirius was saying, tone far too casual to be innocent, “if you keep sitting here in the dark with Regulus all day, you are going to forget how to have any fun.”

You looked up from your book, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “This is fun,” you replied lightly, voice warm with amusement. “Some of us do enjoy quiet, you know. And Regulus is the most fun person ever!”

“Fun?” Sirius repeated, making a face like he’d just bitten into something sour. “Right. Loads of laughs.”

Love really was blind. Because if Sirius had to name the most boring person in the entire castle, it would be his own brother—without hesitation. 

Regulus was practically allergic to fun. The human embodiment of a sigh.

“You used to be so bright and cheerful, too. What have you done to her, Reggie?”

Regulus, who had been steadily ignoring the entire exchange in favor of a well-worn copy of Advanced Potions, turned a single cool glance toward his brother. 

“If anything, she has done something to me,” he said smoothly. 

“And she is perfectly capable of deciding what she enjoys.”

The words were calm, but there was something softer beneath them, something that made Remus glance sidelong at Sirius with the faintest of knowing smiles.

Regulus’s fingers tapped lightly against the spine of his book, eyes lowered again. You could see it — the way his guard was pulling back up around him, piece by piece.

You bit the inside of your cheek, a soft breath caught behind your ribs.

Enough of this.

“Well,” you said brightly, pushing your chair back with a soft scrape against the floor, “that is quite enough for one afternoon.”

Before either of them could reply, you reached out and caught Regulus gently by the sleeve of his robe, fingers curling lightly around the fabric.

“Come on, Reggie,” you said, voice soft but sure. “We will go somewhere quieter.”

Regulus looked up at you, something unspoken flickering in his gaze — and then he nodded, closing his book with a quiet snap and rising smoothly to his feet beside you.

Sirius blinked, half a grin still lingering on his mouth. “Oh? Running off with her now, are you?”

You stifled a laugh, giving a small shake of your head. “I will see you both later,” you said lightly, offering a smile first to Sirius, then to Remus, who only returned it with a soft, knowing warmth that lingered long after you had turned away.

And with that, your hand still brushing lightly against Regulus’s sleeve, you led him from the sun-dappled corner, the faint sound of Sirius’s teasing voice echoing behind you, growing fainter with each step.

Your steps are light, weaving easily through the scattered leaves and roots as you lead Regulus away from the library. 

He follows you with that quiet steadiness of his, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking to you now and again. He never needs to ask where you are going. You both already know.

And soon, there it is—your favorite tree. Ancient and wide, its branches reaching high into the pale blue sky, its roots curling like lazy serpents across the earth. 

Without a word, Regulus leans his back to the trunk and exhales softly, lids fluttering closed for a moment as if to savor the calm. 

You smile at him, bright and easy, and with no hesitation at all, you fold your legs beneath you and settle onto the grass beside him. 

Then, slower, gentler, you ease your head into his lap, the crown of it resting against the fine wool of his robes. You feel him still beneath you, feel the way his breath catches and then softens. 

And when you tilt your gaze up, you catch the barest curve of his lips, an almost-smile, the kind he seems to keep only for you.

For a little while, neither of you speak. The rustle of the leaves above is enough, the warmth of the afternoon sun, the quiet sound of students far off in the distance. 

And the steady presence of him. You let it fill you, content, before you finally break the silence in that soft, lilting tone of yours.

“What do you think we will do once this year is over?” you ask lightly, tracing idle shapes into the fabric of his robes. 

Regulus shifts a little beneath you, gaze dropping to watch your fingers move. He hums low in his throat. “You will go to the Potters’, most likely.”

“And you?” You tilt your head, eyes bright.

There is a pause. Then, quietly, he says, “I will return to Grimmauld.”

You frown, a small crease between your brows. “No, you will not.”

Regulus arches a brow at you, the faintest amusement in his voice. “And why is that?”

“Because I won’t let you.” You smile up at him now, soft and sure. 

“I will not leave you there. You will come with me. With Sirius, Remus, James, and Lily. We will all go to the Potters’ for the summer, and you will be there too. I will not allow you to go back to that house.”

There is a long moment where he says nothing. You watch him, patient. 

You know him well enough not to push too quickly. And after a moment, his gaze drops again to meet yours. 

“It is not so simple, amour” he murmurs.

“It is.” You reach up now, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw with a tenderness that makes something in him go still. 

“Because you are my favorite person, Regulus. And I refuse to be parted from my favorite person. Especially not for a whole summer.”

That nearly undoes him. He breathes in, careful and slow. 

His fingers twitch faintly where they rest beside you on the grass, as if he is fighting the urge to reach for you, to tangle his hands in your hair. 

“I… cannot promise,” he says at last, voice low.

“Then I will promise for you,” you say, your smile soft and your eyes bright. 

“You will come, I will make sure of it, Sirius will too, and Remus. You are welcome, none of us want you to be alone.”

He lets out a breath. His gaze softens more than he means it to. And though he does not say yes, you can feel the edges of his resistance slipping.

“You are impossible,” he murmurs.

The silence deepens, heavy and fragile, until a familiar voice finally breaks through.

“Well, well,” Barty drawled, voice low and smooth as he dropped onto the grass beside you without invitation. 

“Didn’t think I’d find such excellent company out here!”

You looked up, raising a brow. “You always say that. Makes it hard to believe you’re ever surprised.”

Barty’s mouth curved into something softer than a smirk. “Maybe I’m just easily impressed.” He plucked a stray leaf from your shoulder, his fingers brushing just a little longer than necessary. 

“Though I think we both know that isn’t true.”

You gave a quiet laugh, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You’re impossible.”

“Possibly,” he said, eyes gleaming. “But I’m told I’m charming enough to get away with it.”

Regulus didn’t move at first. Then slowly, he shifted, sitting straighter, though his gaze remained firmly ahead. His face had gone carefully blank—expression composed, impassive. 

But his lips were pressed tight and his brows faintly drawn, like he was holding something steady just beneath the surface.

Barty turned back to you. “You always this lovely in the morning, or is this just luck?”

“You’re laying it on thick today, Junior,” you said lightly, flipping the page in your book.

“Only for you.”

Regulus’s fingers flexed once at his side, then stilled. His posture was perfect. His expression hadn’t changed. He looked almost bored, if not for the edge behind his eyes.

Barty leaned back on his elbows, turning his face toward the sky. “You’d think being this pretty would come with a warning.”

You smiled, amused, but didn’t reply.

For the first time, Regulus turned his head.

His voice, when it came, was quiet and clipped. “Some of us were enjoying the quiet.”

Barty glanced over at him, then back to you. “Wasn’t trying to interrupt. Just couldn’t resist the view.”

Regulus’s jaw shifted, subtle and sharp, and though he didn’t respond, his eyes didn’t leave Barty for a long moment.

Barty just grinned. “Anyway,” he said, standing and brushing his trousers off. 

“Don’t let me keep you. I’ll see you around, sweetheart.”

He winked before turning, and Regulus tracked his retreat with a gaze cold enough to freeze wind.

You, still thumbing through your book, didn’t seem to notice.

Regulus looked back at you, his features schooled again into that same unreadable calm. But his fingers, curled in the grass, didn’t unclench.

You give him a playful swat to the arm. “Go on then, let us have our peace.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The quiet settles again, but it feels different now—less peaceful, more strained. 

You shift slightly, resting your head back on Regulus’s lap, eyes turning upward as if the sky might offer some explanation.

He’s unusually still beneath you.

You glance up, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips are pressed together, the faint crease between his brows. That unreadable look he gets when he’s thinking too much, or trying too hard not to feel something.

Something’s off.

You tilt your head, voice soft. “You alright?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, it’s clipped. “Fine.”

You blink. “You don’t sound fine.”

Regulus exhales, low and barely audible. His eyes stay on some far-off point, cold and focused like they’ve locked onto a problem only he can see. 

“I don’t get it,” you say, quieter now, more to yourself than to him.

“One minute you’re fine, and then Barty shows up, and you shut down like someone flipped a switch.” You sit up a little, resting your weight on your elbows, still watching him.

“What did he even say that got under your skin?” you ask, genuinely puzzled. “He was just being Barty.”

Regulus’s gaze flicks down to you then, briefly. His expression is unreadable. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or tired or just done with the conversation. 

“I said I’m fine,” he mutters.

You hesitate, then nod, letting the silence settle again even though it gnaws at your thoughts. You lie back against him, but it doesn’t feel the same now.

The rest of the day blurs by in a way that days sometimes do when your mind is a little elsewhere, when the air feels lighter and you are quietly waiting for something. 

The hours of lessons seem to bleed into one another.

You and Regulus had not shared classes today. Not until later. And already, you were counting down until you could meet him again, like you always do. 

The two of you had made quiet plans for dinner, you would meet by the entrance hall, as always.

But now, with the last lesson fading to a close, you are already making your way down one of the quieter corridors. 

You turn the final corner, steps light and familiar as your eyes scan the corridor ahead. 

You’re expecting to see Regulus leaning against the archway like he usually does, arms crossed, half-annoyed at being early. But the space is empty.

You slow slightly, glancing around.

“Looking for someone?” a voice purrs beside you.

You blink, startled, and turn to find Barty, again, falling into step beside you, hands in his pockets and a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Oh,” you say, letting out a small laugh. “Just Regulus.”

“Of course,” he says lightly. “You two are practically stitched together.”

You smile without thinking. “He’s usually here by now.”

Barty tilts his head, studying you. “I could keep you company until he shows.”

You nod, kind. “That’s sweet of you.”

“So,” he says, casually sliding a bit closer, “what are you doing tomorrow afternoon?”

You blink. “Tomorrow?”

“Mm,” he hums. “Thought maybe you and I could go into Hogsmeade. Get something warm and take a walk. Unless you’ve sworn some blood oath to Regulus to never leave his side.”

You laugh again, still not entirely catching on. “Oh—I mean, I’ve got a few things to do. Some studying and a bit of tutoring.”

Barty leans in slightly, voice warm and teasing. “Surely someone like you can make time for something fun.”

You hesitate, blinking at him. “I—well, I suppose maybe. But—”

“There you are.”

The words cut clean and cold through the air.

You turn.

Regulus is standing just behind you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. 

He looks directly at Barty, not even pretending to smile.

Barty only grins wider. “Perfect timing, Regulus. Just asking your girl here to spend a little time with me tomorrow! We’re thinking Hogsmeade.”

Regulus doesn’t answer or even smile. He just takes a slow step toward you.

Barty claps his hands once, mock-pleasant. “Well, now I don’t have to worry about walking her back. I’ll pick you up at the dorm tomorrow, yeah?”

You look between them, confused, but Barty doesn’t give you time to answer. He gives a wink and strolls off down the corridor, whistling low under his breath.

You turn back to Regulus. “What was that about?”

He starts walking, not waiting for you to follow.

You hurry after him. “Regulus!”

He doesn’t look at you. “You seemed busy.”

You frown. “What does that mean?”

“It means I didn’t want to interrupt,” he mutters, voice clipped.

You fall silent for a few steps, trying to puzzle through the tone, cold and sharp, nothing like the warmth he usually carries around you.

“I didn’t agree to anything,” you say quietly. “I didn’t even understand what he was doing.”

Regulus exhales slowly, still not looking at you.

“I’m not stupid,” he says. “I know exactly what he was doing.”

You watch the rigid line of his back as he walks ahead, and for the first time, you’re not sure how to reach him.

You catch up to him just outside the common room, your steps quick and light across the stone floor. 

He doesn’t slow when he hears you or even glance back. That alone is strange.

“Regulus,” you call gently. He keeps walking.

You try again, louder. “Regulus!”

He stops.

But he still doesn’t look at you. His shoulders are stiff, the line of his spine pulled taut, as if even standing still is a strain.

You frown, stepping up beside him. “What’s wrong with you?” you ask lightly, hoping the softness in your voice will coax whatever it is from him. “You’ve been off since—”

“I’m fine.”

You blink. “You don’t sound fine.”

He finally turns to you. “I’m just tired,” he mutters.

You cross your arms. “Tired doesn’t usually come with the silent treatment.”

Regulus scoffs under his breath and starts walking again.

You follow. “Did I do something?”

He doesn’t answer.

You press again, voice rising. “Regulus!”

That’s when he turns, too fast, too sudden. “Why does it always have to be about you?”

You freeze.

“What?” you whisper.

He exhales through his nose, jaw clenched, like he’s said too much already. “Forget it.”

“No, say it,” you snap, stepping forward. “You’re being a prat right now, and I deserve to know why.”

His eyes flicker to yours, cold and unreadable. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself just fine earlier. Maybe you should go ask Barty to walk you back.”

You blink again, more confused than anything. “What does Barty have to do with this?”

Regulus laughs once — a hollow, bitter sound. “Of course! You don’t even see it.”

“See what?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” you say firmly, voice rising. “If you’re going to treat me like this, you don’t get to act like I’m the problem. Tell me what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything,” he says, almost too fast. “That’s the point!”

Your mouth opens, then shuts again. You stare at him for a long moment, stunned and not even sure what it is you’re supposed to be defending yourself from.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper.

He looks at you, really looks, and for a moment something flickers behind his eyes — not quite anger, but then it’s gone.

“Neither do I,” he says tightly, and turns again, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.

You stand there for a long moment, the stone walls pressing in around you, heart hammering too loud in the sudden quiet.

You didn’t cry.

You told yourself that when you slammed the door shut behind you, chest heaving and eyes dry with stubborn heat. 

You wouldn’t cry over Regulus Black and his moods and his walls and his unreadable coldness. You paced the length of your room for what felt like hours, silent and bristling, your thoughts circling like a storm.

And when sleep finally came, it was out of exhaustion, not peace.

The morning dawned too early, too bright. You woke with your jaw clenched, the memory of his voice sharp in your bones, the ache of confusion still lodged under your ribs. 

You got dressed slower than usual. There was hope beneath your frustration — that maybe, just maybe, it had been a bad night.

That maybe he’d speak.

You made your way through the corridors, the castle quiet in that golden, waking kind of way. And there he was.

Up ahead, his stride is even and precise, as always. The clean line of his shoulders, the dark sweep of his hair, too familiar not to draw you in. 

“Regulus,” you called gently, a little breathless.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t even glance at you.

He passed by as if he hadn’t heard. As if you weren’t even there.

You stopped walking. Your eyes stung, but you blinked it away, standing alone in the middle of the corridor, heat rising to your cheeks, sharp and furious. 

Fine. If he wanted to be cold, you’d let him freeze alone.

“Morning.”

The voice curled around you with an easy drawl, smooth as ever. 

You turned to find Barty leaning casually against the wall just ahead, his eyes already waiting for yours, lazy amusement tugging at his mouth.

You hesitated for only a moment. Then you walked toward him.

Far behind you, unnoticed by most, two Marauders sat in a tucked-away alcove near the end of the corridor. 

kOne leaned forward just enough to catch the moment Regulus passed you without looking. The other raised a brow.

Remus smirked behind the rim of his cup. Sirius didn’t bother hiding his grin.

You, of course, didn’t see it.

You only saw Barty, already stepping forward to fall into pace beside you. “Rough morning?” he asked, like he didn’t already know.

You exhaled slowly, lips twitching into something tired but sharp. “You could say that.”

He gave a soft chuckle, brushing his hand through his hair. “Well, lucky for you, I happen to be excellent company. You need a seat partner?”

You nodded before thinking, letting him guide you into the Great Hall without another glance back. 

You followed him down the aisle, right past the usual table where Regulus always sat — not even sparing a glance.

Barty pulled out the bench for you with a flourish, flashing a half-smile. “Allow me.”

You sat, jaw tight but grateful, and he slid in beside you with practiced ease.

“So,” he said, reaching for a slice of toast. “What’s the plan today, trouble? Should we skip Potions?”

You laughed, quietly. “Tempting.”

His eyes flicked over you, warm and just a little too knowing. “You’re sad.”

You blinked, surprised. “What?”

Barty grinned. “You’ve got that edge today. Out of all the gryffindors, you’re usually the happiest. So what’s got little Lupin sad?”

You shook your head, pretending not to be flustered. “It’s really nothing.”

“Whatever you say,” he said smoothly.

Far off, behind his own untouched plate, Regulus did not look away from the spot you used to sit. 

“You really ought to let yourself have fun more often, you know?” Barty said, tilting his head as he studied you.

You gave him a look, but your lips curled into a smile. “I do have fun. You’re not the only source of entertainment at Hogwarts, Junior.”

“Maybe not,” he murmured, voice dipping lower now. “But I am the best one.”

You laughed despite yourself. He leaned a little closer, his knee brushing yours as if by accident. You didn’t pull away. His presence was warm, light, easy.

Still, your eyes flicked away for a moment. 

You thought of how Regulus always knew what you needed before you said it, how his silences somehow spoke more truth than others’ words. 

You thought of the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing left in the world worth trusting after all the heartache his family brought upon him.

And just like that, the breath you took felt thinner.

Barty didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t care.

He shifted again, closer still. His hand hovered near yours, his eyes unreadable now.

“You’ve got this look,” he said softly. “Like you’re trying to decide something.”

You blinked. “Am I?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his gaze fixed on your mouth. “But if I’m lucky, maybe you’ll decide in my favor.”

And then he leaned in. Slowly, deliberately, like gravity itself had shifted to pull him closer.

His face tilted toward yours, the space between you thinning until his lips hovered just shy of yours, brushing the shape of your breath.

Your breath hitched. A quiet, startled catch in your chest. And before you could think better of it, before you could remind yourself that something about this felt not quite right, you found yourself beginning to lean in, too.

“I need my copy of Advanced Defensive Charms back.” a voice cut through the moment like a blade, sharp and quick.

You jolted slightly, startled. Regulus stood a few paces away, arms crossed, his tone just loud enough to make a few heads turn. 

His eyes never once flicked to you. They were locked on Barty, steady and searing, the kind of stare that didn’t waver or soften, only dared him to lean closer.

“Now?” you asked, breath catching.

“Yes, now.” He didn’t wait for a response. He simply turned, expecting you to follow.

You hesitated, glancing back at Barty. He only hummed under his breath, half a grin tugging at his lips.

“Well,” Barty said with a slow smile, rising to his feet. His eyes flicked to Regulus, all amusement. “Good luck with that.”

He brushed past you lightly, then turned back just enough to add, “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

As he passed Regulus, his shoulder brushed deliberately against his. He leaned in, voice barely audible, words meant for one person only.

“Took you long enough, Black.”

You didn’t hear it. You were already catching up, confusion stirring beneath your ribs. You moved after Regulus without looking back.

Barty, however, didn’t glance away. He smiled to himself and wandered off, whistling low under his breath.

And not too far off, beneath the arch of a crumbling corridor, Sirius watched with a grin curled into the corner of his mouth. 

Remus leaned against the wall beside him, expression unreadable, but his eyes flicked briefly to Regulus’s back.

“Well,” Sirius said under his breath. “That’s one way for him to realise.”

Right after Barty left, before you could fully process what had just happened, a hand closed around yours. Firm, warm, and unmistakably his.

You froze mid-step, surprise catching in your throat. “Regulus?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he tugged sharply, a sudden, insistent pull that sent your feet moving before your mind could even catch up. 

He was dragging you out of the hall, his jaw clenched tight, eyes fixed straight ahead with an intensity that brooked no argument.

You stumbled, breath hitching in your chest. “What the hell are you doing?”

Still no response.

“Regulus!” You yanked at your arm, trying desperately to plant your heels into the cold stone floor. “What’s gotten into you?”

His grip didn’t waver. Knuckles whitening around your wrist, holding on like losing you was something he simply could not afford.

“You can’t just—drag me around like this,” you snapped, voice rising now.

“You ignored me yesterday, acted like I didn't exist, and now you think you can just show up, grab me, and what? Command me like a dog?”

He kept walking.

“Regulus, seriously, stop! What is this? What do you want from me?”

You were furious now. Not just annoyed—furious. Because you didn’t understand, and he wasn’t saying anything, and his silence felt like a match held too long over your skin.

“Is this a joke to you?” you hissed. “Because if this is some twisted mood swing of yours, I’m not playing along!”

He didn’t even look at you.

He was dragging you through the empty corridors, his grip unwavering, steps quick and purposeful as the castle's echoes followed behind.

When he finally stopped, it was outside a narrow door tucked between unused classrooms—an old closet room long forgotten. Without hesitation, he opened it and pulled you inside, the darkness swallowing you both.

You were breathless, panting more from anger than exertion.

Without warning, he spun you around, his hand gripping your waist with a force that both startled and grounded you.

His touch was firm, commanding, pulling you close as he pressed you back against the cold stone wall. 

His breaths came ragged and uneven, a low exhale escaping him as if the air itself was thick with tension.

His pupils were dilated, dark and wide, flickering with a restless fire that made your skin prickle.

The smooth weight of his body loomed over you, tall and unyielding, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the space between you. 

Your shoulders met the wall with a deliberate, lingering pressure—not harsh, but enough to stop your breath and still your racing thoughts in an instant.

Your hands flew up to his chest instinctively. “Are you insane?!” you snapped.

He stared at you like he couldn’t hear you. Or like he’d heard every word but couldn’t stop himself anyway.

He stepped closer. You could feel the tension pulsing off him now, raw, sharp, and electric.

And then, finally, he spoke. “He wants you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Barty,” he said, voice low and bitter. “He wants you.”

You shot him a fierce glare, voice trembling with barely contained anger. “Junior? Is that what this is? Him sitting with me?”

He closed the gap, breath hot against your face, hand gripping your waist tight.

“He wasn’t just sitting with you. He was about to kiss you and you were going to kiss him back!.”

You shot back, voice sharp, nearly a shout. “And why do you care?”

He opened his mouth then closed it again. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

That made you scoff. “Oh, really? Enlighten me, Black.”

His eyes searched you, as if trying to decide whether to say it at all.

You laughed, too harsh. “You know what, Regulus? You’re unbelievable!”

“You’re acting like I’ve committed some crime. He sat beside me. He talked. What did you want me to do, tell him to leave?”

“You were going to kiss him,” Regulus said, he didn’t flinch. Instead, his hand shot out, fingers curling around your jaw with an unexpected firmness that both claimed and grounded you. 

You stared at him, the heat in your chest twisting. “And what if I did?”

His thumb brushed lightly against your lips, slow and deliberate, before his eyes dropped from your face to linger on your mouth. 

His voice dropped low, edged with a quiet intensity that made your pulse hammer in your ears.

[I highly suggest playing Friends by Chase Atlantic here!!!]

“I’m not here to argue,” he said, husky but steady. “I’m here to tell you that I won’t let you forget what almost happened. You were about to kiss some other bastard.” 

His gaze held yours, unyielding and raw. “And I’m the only one you should ever want.”

Before you could even register what was happening, his lips were on yours, urgent and demanding.

You kissed him back instantly, your hands in his shirt, pulling, anchoring, trying to close the impossible space that had always lived between you.

The kiss deepened, lips parting, breaths catching, hands everywhere at once—his in your hair, yours fisted in the front of his shirt like you needed something to hold onto or else you’d fall straight through the floor. 

His body pressed against yours, firm and unrelenting, pinning you to the stone wall behind like you were something worth holding onto, something he couldn’t let go of even if he tried.

Your legs parted instinctively, one of his thighs sliding between yours as your hips tilted forward without thinking, chasing the pressure, chasing him. 

The way he moved against you—slow, firm, purposeful—sent heat coiling low in your stomach, your breath stuttering as your hands slid down the hard lines of his back and held him there.

You could barely think past it. Barely speak.

But then your mouth opened and—

“Regulus,” you breathed, the sound escaping like a prayer. “God—Please.”

He stilled instantly.

The world narrowed to the way his chest heaved against yours, the shallow rise and fall of his breath. His lips brushed yours again, barely, as he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and blown wide with something more dangerous than want.

“Say that again,” he murmured, voice ragged and low like it had been torn straight from somewhere deep.

You swallowed, heat flickering through you. “Regulus.”

His name on your tongue again made something in him snap.

He surged forward before the last syllable left your lips, kissing you harder, like he was trying to consume it, claim it, swallow the sound down and make it his.

He groaned into your mouth, hips pressing against yours again in a movement that had you gasping, clinging tighter.

You didn’t hesitate. You pulled him closer, fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt, touch desperate and searching. 

His mouth found the curve of your neck, hot and open, and a gasp escaped your lips before you could stop it.

“I need you, please.” you panted, breath catching as your head fell back,

Your legs shifted instinctively, knees parting, trying to draw him closer still as his teeth scraped lightly over your skin, his hands tightening at your waist like he couldn’t get close enough.

“Keep those legs spread for me, amour.” He groaned.

The command was so firm and unquestionable that it nearly took you by surprise. He had never spoken to you like that before. Moments between you were usually filled with playfulness and light teasing.

You reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his trousers, a silent plea for him to touch you where you need him most. 

But before you could move further, his hand wrapped around your wrist. 

“Behave,” he murmured, voice low and rough, with an edge that hadn’t been there before. 

You barely manage to catch your breath before his hands slide lower, gripping your waist as he presses you harder against the wall.  

Regulus leans in, his mouth finding your neck, biting and sucking with a hunger that sends your pulse skittering. Each mark he leaves burns, a promise, a claim—evidence you already know you’ll need to hide later.

“Someone could walk in,” you gasp, voice trembling as your back presses harder into the wall, but Regulus just exhales, his breath hot against your collarbone.

“Then be quiet,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. His hands slide beneath your shirt, palms gliding over your skin with agonizing slowness. You shiver beneath his touch, already arching into him before you realize you're doing it.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Your answer is a broken whimper as your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard enough to draw a groan from his throat.

His grip tightens on your hips, and you feel him against you—hard, aching, insistent through the fabric of his trousers, grinding into your thigh.

“Need you,” you breathe, the words barely making it past your lips, “please, Regulus.”

Regulus leans back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and seething. “You think it's funny,” he says, voice low and cold, “going around flirting with Junior?”

Before you can answer, his hands move—urgent, possessive—tugging your skirt up with rough precision, exposing skin to the cool air and his hotter gaze. His fingers press into your thighs, thumbs brushing dangerously close, and the sharp edge of the tension coils tighter in your stomach.

“You were smiling at him,” he mutters, like the thought alone sets him off. “Laughing.”

Your breath hitches. He presses closer, chest against yours, thigh slipping between your legs until you can barely stand straight.

“Say it,” he demands, voice at your ear. “Say who you want.”

You whimper softly, eyes barely meeting his as the words slip out, “Want you.”

He raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk curling at his lips. “Uh uh, that’s not my name, amour.” he says, voice low and amused.

You straighten immediately, biting back a smile. “Want you, Regulus,” you correct.

“Good, baby,” Regulus murmured, but before you could respond, he pulled you flush against him, capturing your lips again. His kisses were harsher now, urgent and hungry for more.

His hands slid beneath your skirt, fingertips tracing along your bare skin, sending a shiver through you. His glare was intense, but softened by the way his lips parted slightly, breath uneven.

You leaned in closer, brushing your lips along his jaw and teased, ​​“Is that all you’ve got, Reggie? Barty seems to be doing a much better job.”

A low sound rumbles in his chest, and before you know it, he’s doesn’t give you a chance to react before he’s stepping between your legs, hands spreading your thighs wider.

“You’re getting cocky,” he mutters, unbuttoning your shirt off in one quick motion. His hands are everywhere, skimming your sides, gripping your waist, fingers digging into your thighs. 

He finally rests one on your waist, and one just under your breast. “Think you can go around acting like that? Such a brat.”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back a moan when his mouth latches onto your collarbone, sucking a mark into your skin.

“You didn’t exactly stop me,” you manage to say, your voice breathy.

Regulus just scoffs, his hands moving to pull your skirt up “You’re right. Guess I need to teach you a lesson.”

His hands slide over your panties, and his lips brush against your ear. “You’re gonna keep quiet, understand?”

You nod, breathless, and he smirks, clearly not convinced. His fingers dip lower, teasing you through your underwear, and you have to bite down on your lip to muffle the noise that slips out. 

Regulus just hums, almost pleased with your reaction. His thumb grazes against your clothed clit, just barely giving you what you want. He applies slight pressure, and you bite your lip harder, eager for more.

“Better keep your voice low. You wouldn’t want anyone finding out how desperate you are for me, would you?” He taunts, his thumb pressing more firmly. 

He pushes your panties to the side, and strokes long stripes up and down your folds, collecting the arousal that has accumulated. 

He groans softly as he stares down at your cunt, and he slides his middle finger inside of you, earning a soft gasp from you. You can’t help the way your hips buck forward, chasing his touch. You're too needy to be embarrassed at this point.

“Please, Reggie,” you whisper, your hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric.

He gives you that intense, the one that makes your stomach twist with anticipation.

“You’re lucky I need you this bad,” he mutters before he slips his ring finger inside, curling just right, making you mewl.

His other hand cups the back of your neck, keeping you close as his mouth moves against yours, swallowing your moans.

His fingers move faster, and it’s impossible to stay quiet, but he doesn’t seem to care anymore. All that matters is the way you’re unraveling in his hands, and he’s watching every bit of it with a smug, satisfied look.

The way his fingers curl so precisely inside of you almost makes you see stars—and his thumb increases the speed against your clit. You grind your hips harder into his hand, desperate for your release.

“You’re gonna remember this next time you think about kissing Junior,” he murmurs, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit, making your thighs tremble around him. 

"Say it."

"I'll remember it, just—please, need all of you." You whimper as his fingers fuck you faster.

Regulus doesn’t waste any time, pulling out his fingers and spinning you against the wall. 

You gasp loudly at how quickly he pulled his fingers out of you, and also being slammed against the wall rather quickly.

His hand snakes around your waist, pulling your hips back to meet his, and you can feel how hard he is through his pants.

“You’re gonna be good for me now, right?” He mutters against your ear, his voice rough and dripping with dominance. 

You nod, too breathless to respond properly, and he chuckles lowly. “Use your words, amour.”

“Y-Yes,” you stammer, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “I’ll be good, Regulus. I promise.”

“Good girl, that’s what I thought,” he murmurs, one hand slipping under your shirt, brushing over your stomach, while the other tugs your hips back against him.

His lips trace the curve of your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear.

You can’t help the way you push and wiggle back against him, desperate for more contact.

Regulus clicks his tongue disapprovingly, his grip tightening on your waist to keep you in place.

“Patience,” he says, almost like he’s scolding you, but there’s a hint of a smirk in his voice. 

His lips follow, kissing along your shoulder as he pushes his own pants down just enough to free himself.

His cock stands proudly, and he gives himself a couple pumps in preparation. He runs his hand over the tip, collecting the precum that had accumulated. 

He brings himself closer to you, and presses his cock head against your wet folds, causing the man to sigh shakily.

You feel him press against you, hot and heavy, and your breath hitches in anticipation. Regulus leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, one hand still gripping your waist.

“Please, I need you,” you whisper, pushing your hips back to encourage him.

He finally gives in, guiding himself to your entrance and pushing in slowly, stretching you inch by inch.

The way he fills you has your knees almost giving out, but Regulus’s grip on your waist holds you steady. His girth stretches your walls out further and further—the sting and burn never feeling better.

“Fuck,” he groans, stilling once he’s fully inside you, balls deep. “So tight... and you just take it so well.”

You whimper at the stretch, your body adjusting to the intrusion, and Regulus’s lips press against the back of your neck, grounding you. 

Once he’s sure you’re ready, he starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep, every movement deliberate and measured. His grip on you tightens, and he lets out a soft sigh of pleasure.

“God!” you gasp, as he picks up the pace, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. His balls clap against your ass as he fucks into you harsher.

“Keep quiet,” he warns, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “You don’t want anyone to hear how desperate you sound, do you?”

You bite your lip, doing your best to muffle your moans, but Regulus’s relentless pace makes it impossible.

His hand slides up to cover your mouth, muffling your whimpers as he pounds into you harder, his hips snapping against yours with an urgency that drives you wild.

"You're doing a good job at listening," he praises as his cock slams in and out of your tight walls, "I'm s-shocked." You bite your lip harder, eager to please him. 

Knowing Regulus, he'll stop if you disobey. You nod your head in response, and thrust your hips back into his to match his pace.

You can feel yourself getting closer, your walls clenching tightly around him, and he whimpers at the sensation, his hand sliding from your mouth to your chest, pulling you back against him as he thrusts deeper.

“Gonna cum for me?” He whispers against your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

You nod frantically. "Good," he growls, and he bites down on your shoulder, his pace becoming rougher, more erratic.

The wet sloshing sounds filling the room along with bated breaths and desperate moans. “Fuck, amour, squeezing me so good. pretty little pussy was made just f’me”

Cock drunk moans being the only response coming from yourlips. Fingers of one of his hands digging into the flesh of your hip, no doubt leaving bruising prints you’d be seeing for days. 

The other creeping around your throat, squeezing briefly before arching you back to look into those eyes you loved so much. “Reg, hah, p-please, I can’t!”.

A harsh smack against the skin of your ass making you gasp. “Now, what did I tell you about being quiet?”

Your eyes roll back, walls of your cunt starting to spam as you feel that beautiful high creeping upon you. “Can’t hold, fuck."

His slender fingers toy with your clit bringing you closer, jaw slack with a desperate cry of his name. 

 “Merlin, you squeeze my cock so good, shit, gonna stuff you full of my cum so you’ll belong to no one other than me!” 

Whines leave your throat at the rough thrusts, tip of his cock practically kissing your cervix.  “I’ll fuck this cunt as many times as it takes, as many times I need to to make sure you’re no one else’s”.

You’re filled with the burning feeling of the thick ropes of his cum emptying deep within you, flooding your womb with the intention of his seed doing its job, leaving you whining for more.

“You feel so good.”

Emptiness taking over as he pulls out, still twitching at the sight of his cum slowly trailing down your thighs. 

Regulus’s hands found your waist with a firm, almost desperate grip. He spun you around to face him fully, his touch careful but commanding. 

He pulled your panties upwards and smoothed the hem of your skirt, adjusting it with an almost ridiculous kind of precision for someone who had just fucked you like that. 

Then, more gently, he cupped your face, his thumb brushing along your cheek as if to ground himself. “Look at me,” he murmured, voice low but steady.

You did, your eyes wide and breath shallow.

He held your gaze for a long beat before the tension cracked just slightly. “Are you alright? Was I too harsh?”

You nodded, pupils still blown wide, lips parted as you tried to steady your breath.

Your neck was littered in the proof of him—faint, blooming marks he hadn’t quite meant to leave but hadn’t resisted either.

Regulus’s hands didn’t leave you. One of them tightened at your jaw, the other resting low on your waist as he leaned in, gaze dark and unwavering.

“Use your words, baby,” he said softly, but it wasn’t a suggestion.

Your voice came quiet, a little shaky. “I’m good. Just… not sure I can walk.”

That pulled a laugh from him. Real and unguarded. It burst from his chest before he could stop it, low and warm, his head tipping slightly as he smiled at you.

And you just stared.

Because it wasn’t often that Regulus Black laughed. 

And you couldn’t look away.

Your chest ached in the sweetest way.

You loved him. You had, maybe, for far longer than you’d ever dared to admit. But now, standing here, with his hands still on your skin and his laughter blooming like a promise between you, it was impossible to ignore.

He looked back at you, eyes soft, still shining with something that made your heart stutter.

And you knew. There was no one else you would ever want like this.

His eyes searched yours like he still didn’t quite believe this was real, like he might wake up if he blinked too long.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” he said, voice low and rough, “for as long as I can remember.”

You blinked, a startled laugh slipping from your lips. You tilted your head slightly, amusement flickering in your eyes.

“You know,” you said, breath still shaky, “Remus might actually kill you for this.”

Regulus shrugged, a faint smile pulling at his lips, equal parts challenge and surrender. “Merlin, don’t even mention it.”

Your grin widened, eyes gleaming now. “Well,” you murmured, as if tasting the words before you committed to them, “our brothers are dating.”

His brows twitched, and for a moment, something almost vulnerable crossed his face. His voice was quieter this time, uncertain around the edges.

“Should we?”

The question hung in the space between your mouths, half-ridiculous, half-serious.

His voice was a whisper, raw with meaning and years of silent longing. “Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime, Y/n, since I was eleven.”

A soft, joyful laugh escaped your lips, the weight of his words settling deep in your heart.

“I love you, Regulus, since I was eleven too.” you breathed, your voice trembling with the truth of it.

Without a pause, he drew you close again, his kiss slow and reverent, as if trying to memorize every part of you.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he murmured against your lips, the depth of his love echoing in every word.

Unbeknownst to you and Regulus, not far away Sirius and Remus were sharing a quiet moment, their voices low but filled with laughter.

Sirius was clapping Barty on the shoulder, his eyes bright with mischief and satisfaction.

“Thanks for stepping in, Junior,” Sirius said with a grin. “I don’t think we could’ve gotten through to them without a little… persuasion.”

Remus chuckled, shaking his head. “It was about time someone shook things up. Watching them circle each other like that was honestly painful.”

Remus sighed, then added proudly, “I’m sure he pulled her aside to talk things out. Maturely! Like the reasonable Black he is.”

Sirius snorted. “Right. I’m very sure he’s handling this like a Black.”

Remus froze. His eyes widened slowly as something unpleasant dawned on him. “You don’t think they would—”

“Oh, that’s exactly how we talked our feelings out, remember?” Sirius grinned, smug and absolutely no help at all.

Remus looked positively horrified and about to pass out. “Merlin. No. No, no—she’s my sister—”

Barty was already wheezing with laughter, doubled over on the bench. “Come on, Lupin. He’s a Black. What did you expect?”

Remus suddenly stood, eyes wide with dawning horror. “Oh no. No. I need to find them.”

He was already striding down the corridor, muttering about protective charms and locking spells, while Sirius and Barty doubled over behind him—laughing, breathless, as their plan succeeded just a little too well for Remus’ peace of mind.

James’ white bathrobe is the only reasonable alternative. You grab it off the hook by the towels and wrap it around yourself, nodding contentedly as it reveals only a sliver of fabric at your chest and nothing more. You might as well be wearing a nightie, for all they know. The dress will just have to be returned, and you'll tell them you couldn't find one that fit- technically correct.

You aim to leave the bathroom casually, but that becomes almost impossible when you open the door and find yourself face-to-face with Regulus, his fist raised as if to knock.

“Hi, Reg!” Too cheery. You tamper down your smile and stand on your tip-toes to kiss him, holding the robe tightly around yourself.

“Hello. I was just going to ask what you wanted for dinner. Are you alright, darling?" He wonders, watching you with storm-grey eyes that always seem to see just a little more than you're expecting them to.

"Of course! Dandy." You supply.

He cocks his head, unmoving. "You’re in an odd mood.”

“What? No. This is my usual mood,” You insist.

“M-hm.” His eyes drop momentarily down to the robe, narrowing. “Any particular reason you're wearing James' robe?” 

“Am I?”

The aforementioned individual appeared, suddenly, grinning. “I don’t mind. Looks great, very sexy!”

You wonder if it's possible for your face to heat so much that it melts.

“Incorrigible, James.” Regulus says softly.

You give him a weak smile, squirming away from the impossible weight of their combined gazes and heading for the bedroom. Regrettably, they follow you.

“Why are you wearing it, angel?” James asks, flopping onto the bed. 

You shrug, searching for an opportunity to get them both to leave you alone to change. The truth is that your own robe would've been much too short, and if they see the bottom of the dress they'll probably ask for the whole thing, and that's just not going to happen. You press your fingers into the soft curve of your lower stomach nervously, taking a few steps backwards until your back hits the wall. James' brows pull together. 

“Um. I don't know.”

The two of them exchange a glance. You understand; you're not exactly behaving in a normal manner.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Regulus asks. You like to think you're better at reading his expressions than most- the slight slant of his dark brows tells you he's concerned, but you can't get a good read on the rest of it.

"Yes, I'm fine! Why are you- I- I'm just a little warm."

"Call me crazy, angel," James says, amused, "But taking off the robe might help with that."

Your reply comes too quickly, to your immediate regret. "No!"

There's a brief silence. You feel like a total idiot, but you're sure it beats the feeling you'd get seeing them pretend to like the way you look right now. You squeeze your eyes shut for second, swallowing hard.

"I'm sorry," You sound mortifyingly close to tears. "Sorry. I just- sorry."

At a total loss, James stares at you from the bed. Regulus touches your upper arm gently.

"There's no need to apologise, darling, just tell us what's happened. What's made you so upset?"

You force yourself to make eye contact. "Please can you both just go while I get changed?"

Their expressions are awful; knowing you're causing such a fuss over something so trivial, so stupid, you feel like just about the worst girlfriend in the world.

“Is there something you're worried we'll see? Bruises, or something?” James asks. "We can go, baby, but if there's something going on it might be better for Reg or me to take a look. You know I was joking when I said I'd break up with you if you got that tattoo of Margaret Thatcher's face."

You deflate, softened by his attempt to break the tension. Regulus rolls his eyes, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch. "What's going on, hm?" He asks quietly.

With a sigh, you stare at the ground, giving up. They're too lovely to stick to your original plan- you'll just have to let it happen, and hope to make up for it another time by looking better.

"...I'm not sure you'll love what you see."

“Of course we’ll love it. We love you.” Regulus says firmly, like it's obvious.

“That doesn’t mean-”

“Angel. Take the robe off, yeah? We’ll prove it to you.” 

At James' insistence, you take a deep breath and stare at the ground as you shrug off the robe, wrapping your arms around your middle. You're keenly aware of the places where your skin presses against fabric, the way it falls, and the heat rushing to your cheeks. Oh, god.

"Fuck." Regulus says, uncharacteristically crude. You curl in on yourself a little further.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s not how it looked on the-”

James interrupts you. “Baby? I’m gonna be honest, because I love you, okay?”

“Okay.” You say meekly, eyes stinging. Maybe it's even worse than you’d thought.

“I cannot hear a single word you are saying when you look that good. Like, a single word. It’s all lost on me. I’m going to need a minute.” 

Regulus’ hands are on you before you could properly react to James’ words, drawing your arms away from your body and taking in the dress with hungry eyes. 

“Exquisite, sweetheart," He exclaims, hands on yours. "I would say you’re never taking this off, but that’s actually all I want to do.”

"What?" You manage, smiling despite yourself. You pull your hands away and press them to your face. "Reg, you don't have to-"

“You thought we wouldn’t want to see this?” Hands on your shoulders, Regulus spins you once, before pulling your back against his chest and planting a heated kiss to the side of your neck. “And you called me crazy?”

“You’re- I’m- what?” You stammer. James makes an unintelligible sound from the bed, pressing a dramatic hand to his heart. "Thank you."

"Don't thank us, angel. Holy shit. I'm thanking you. I'm thanking the gods. I'm thanking-"

"James is very thankful." Regulus whispers into your hair. You laugh out loud, a little giddy at all their praise. "D'you know what I'd be thankful for right now?"

"What?"

"You on that bed, darling," He says. You lean into his touch as his hand slides down your side, squeezing a part of your waist you'd prodded critically in the mirror not ten minutes ago. Now you enjoy the feeling of his warm hands through the thin fabric, enjoy having a shape his hands both appreciate so well. "Off you go."

It's an instruction, now, and you shiver at the authority in his tone as you obey. James is on you before the duvet has even settled, making you gasp as he presses kisses all over your face.

“I’m going to destroy this dress. I’m sorry.” He says earnestly. You giggle happily, insecurities not quite gone but coated in a honey-sweet joy that softens their presence.

“I thought you liked it.”

“M-hm. It’s okay,” His hand finds your thigh and grips it firmly, fingers pressing into soft skin. “We’ll buy you a million more.” 

You let yourself enjoy it all for a moment more before giving any space to the snarky voice at the back of your mind, more out of a desire for reassurance than genuine belief that the two boys on top of you would genuinely do such a thing. "You're not- not just saying all this to make me feel better?"

“Why would we ‘just say’ this?” Regulus murmurs against your right shoulder, forearm across your stomach as he does wicked things to your skin that you'll have to cover in concealer if you want to wear anything sleeveless for a few days.

“...I don't know. Make me feel better?”

“You’re stunning. Literally- how often is James speechless, hm?” 

You laughed. “Hardly ever.” 

“Exactly. You're quite regularly the most beautiful girl either of us have ever seen, darling, whether you're feeling the same way or not,” Regulus leans on his elbow to look at you sternly. "We don't appreciate you this way because you look like somebody else, we adore you because you're yourself, and completely radiant."

“I don’t think you don't like me, I promise. It’s just something that’s in my brain- that I’m ugly, or something. It's silly."”

"It is," James agrees, allowing Regulus to return to whatever he's doing to your collarbone. "But it's not your fault. Your only job is to listen to what we're telling you, instead of your insecurity. Yeah?"

"Yeah," You nod, a little breathless. It's very easy to be agreeable when they're doing all these things to you. James kisses a line down your throat, to your chest, to your arm, slipping the strap of the dress down to follow. “I love you both," You manage.

You jab your own cheeks for emphasis, fingers pressing into the softness just beneath your eyes, and the room erupts into snorts and muffled laughter, your so-called friends delighting in your apparent delusion.

But you know the truth. You have seen them—the delicate crescents that carve themselves into his cheeks when he smiles in that unguarded way, soft and fleeting, like moonlight filtering through darkened leaves. It is a secret you hold close to your heart, something sacred and untouched, for Regulus Black is not supposed to smile like that. Not according to them.

To everyone else, he is sharp lines and cold eyes, distant and unyielding, a boy forged from winter’s breath and brittle starlight. His name drips from their tongues like a warning, a reminder of ancient bloodlines and whispered expectations. But you know better. You have seen the way his eyes soften when you laugh, the way his hands hesitate before touching yours as if afraid he might shatter something precious.

Regulus Black, to you, is soft edges and hidden warmth, tenderness folded into the corners of his smile, something gentle and achingly beautiful beneath the surface. They could not see it, would not believe it, but you did. You always did.

"Darling," James begins, slipping into his most condescending tone as he tilts his glasses down the bridge of his nose to peer at you properly, eyes alight with mischief. "I’ve known Reggie since fourth year, and not once have I ever seen a dimple. Not even a suggestion of one."

He is wrong, you think, pressing your lips together to keep the secret tucked safely in your heart.

They do not know the way Regulus looks at you when no one is watching, how his gaze softens like the edge of dawn, or how his laugh—rare and unbidden—blooms like a flower in the dark. They do not know that Regulus Black, for all his coldness, holds sunlight in his smile, and you are one of the very few who has ever been allowed to see it.

"That’s because you’re not paying attention," you shoot back, arms crossing defensively. "He does this little smile sometimes, it’s soft and kind of lopsided, and there’s this tiny dimple right here—" you poke your cheek again, more insistently, as if the physicality might convince them. "I swear, it’s like magic."

"Or madness," Remus suggests mildly, and Mary dissolves into laughter, her curls shaking as she leans further into him.

"I mean, we’re talking about Regulus Black here, right? My-face-is-carved-from-stone Regulus Black?"

"Maybe it’s just a shadow," Sirius chimes in, inspecting his nails with a grin that teeters on smugness. He hardly even glances up, as if the matter is too trivial for his full attention.

"A trick of the light. Or you’ve been hexed. Definitely hexed. I bet it’s a dimple jinx. You see fake dimples, fall madly in love." His grin widens, eyes glinting with mischief, and the others snicker at the notion.

"I have not been hexed!" you cry, voice pitching higher in your indignation, but your outburst only seems to spur their laughter further.

The sound spills into the room like the crackle of firewood, unrestrained and merry, and you stand at the center of it all, defiant and unyielding. "I’m telling you, I’ve seen them. He has dimples!"

"Right," James nods, his expression shifting to exaggerated seriousness as he claps a hand on your shoulder, eyes sparkling with that brand of Marauder mischief that rarely bodes well.

"And I’m secretly the heir to the Malfoy fortune."

"Stop it." you protest, your hands flying to your hips as if that might root your argument more firmly in truth.

"He has dimples. If you look closely, you’ll see them!"

They laugh again, the sound bubbling up like champagne flutes clinking together, indulgent and disbelieving. But you only hold your ground, chin tilted upward with all the stubbornness of someone who has glimpsed something magical and refuses to let it be reduced to smoke and shadows.

Because you know. You have seen the way Regulus’s face softens when he lets his guard slip, how those tiny, secret dimples blossom at the edges of his smile like something fragile and hidden from the rest of the world. It is not a trick of the light, not some fleeting mirage conjured by wishful thinking.

It is real. He is real. And maybe, just maybe, they have never looked closely enough.

"He does not," Sirius says flatly. "I would know. I’ve seen that miserable mug for seventeen years straight, and not once has it ever hinted at joy. If he’s smiling for you, you might want to check if he’s choking."

"You don’t know everything about him," you snap back, and it’s a bit more pointed than you intended, because Sirius’s expression shifts for the briefest moment, but then he’s back to smirking, one brow arched.

"Oh, I know enough. And I know that my miserable little brother is physically incapable of producing dimples. It would require smiling first. Which is practically illegal for him, by the way. Pretty sure he signed a contract with Death himself."

"He does smile," you argue. "Just... not around you lot."

Mary’s eyes light up at that, and she sits up a little straighter, nudging Remus. "Not around us, huh? Just around you?"

You hesitate, heat creeping up your neck. "Well… yeah. I suppose." At their expressions, you quickly add, "That’s not weird!"

"It’s a little weird," Remus says thoughtfully. "I mean, I’ve never seen him smile like that." He looks to Sirius for confirmation, who just shakes his head.

"Me neither," Sirius agrees. "And if he was going to be grinning like a lovesick idiot, I feel like I’d know. Or maybe you just have some sort of freaky dimple-seeing ability. Is that a thing? Can we get that checked?"

"Maybe he only smiles for her," Mary sing-songs, and you swat at her, cheeks blazing. "What? I’m just saying!"

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, frustration curling hot and sharp beneath your ribs. You know what you saw. It wasn’t magic or shadows or madness. It was Regulus, soft and unguarded in a way that felt almost secret. A piece of him reserved just for you, like a glimpse behind the curtain of a play only you were meant to watch.

But they wouldn’t believe you. They couldn’t. Because to them, Regulus was all sharp edges and cold stares, impenetrable as stone. But to you, he was something else entirely.

You saw the parts he kept hidden—the softness, the ache, the way his eyes would linger when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his fingers brushed yours just a bit too long when he handed you your books, the way he stood a little closer than necessary when you walked side by side. His dimples were proof of it. Proof of the parts of him that were gentle and real and yours.

"I’m not making it up," you murmur stubbornly, softer this time, almost like you’re telling it to yourself.

James leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You know, I almost want you to be right. I’ve never seen Regulus with dimples before. I think it would break my brain."

The room is still shaking with laughter when the portrait door swings open. It is a subtle thing, just the soft groan of hinges and the hush of movement, but you feel it like an echo in your bones. Your gaze snaps up before you can help it, the breath stalling in your lungs as if caught between heartbeats.

There he is, Regulus Black, framed in the doorway like he has stepped out of a painting, shadows and light playing across his features in sharp relief.

He is ice and elegance, his gaze sweeping over the room with cool detachment, the sort of look that makes even Sirius go still. His brother’s grin falters, an instinctual pause as if the air has been sucked from the room.

Regulus’s eyes flicker over them, James’s raised brow, Sirius’s smirk half-frozen in place, Remus’s unbothered calm, but there is nothing there, not even a nod of acknowledgment. His expression is marble-carved, beautiful and unyielding.

But then his gaze finds yours, and it softens, melts like snow beneath the first touch of spring. His eyes brighten, lips twitching at the corners, and suddenly it is like you are the only two people in the room. The change is breathtaking, the kind of transformation that feels like stepping into sunlight after days of rain.

Without thinking, you are already moving, feet carrying you across the room as if pulled by some invisible thread.

"Regulus," you breathe, and the way his name falls from your lips feels like unspooling thread, like the first sigh of spring. His expression softens entirely, something delicate and aching sparking behind his eyes as you practically throw yourself into his arms. He catches you easily, arms winding around your waist, steady and certain, like he has been waiting for you his entire life.

Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, fingertips grazing the base of his neck as you pull back just enough to look at him properly. His smile is still there, still hovering at the edges, and it is soft and real and yours.

"I missed you," you whisper, half a confession, half a prayer, and as soon as the words leave your lips, it happens.

A tiny crease, delicate and almost imperceptible, blooms on his left cheek, like the first hint of dawn breaking over a dark horizon.

A dimple, soft and secret, there and gone in a heartbeat, as if it only exists for you.

"I missed you too, amour," he murmurs, his gaze flicking over your face like he is memorizing it. "You have no idea."

There is a tension in the room, thick and breathless, as if the very walls are leaning in to listen, the crackle of the fire muted under the weight of disbelief.

The Marauders and Mary are watching with wide eyes, suspended between fascination and utter incredulity, as if the scene before them is too tender, too impossibly soft to be real.

Regulus Black—aloof and unyielding, frost-kissed and sharp-edged—is holding you like something sacred, his arms wrapped around you with a gentleness that seems to contradict everything they thought they knew of him. His thumb brushes across your cheek, feather-light and reverent, as though you are made of something finer than bone and breath, something worth protecting.

And then he smiles—just a fraction more—but it is enough.

You do not even realize what you are doing; your body moves before your mind catches up, and you lean up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and soft and so achingly familiar it feels like slipping into an old memory. He blinks, eyes flickering with surprise, but you do not pull away.

You lean in again, pressing your lips to his other cheek, right where his smile deepens, and it happens—a twin to the first, blooming on the opposite cheek as if coaxed into existence by your touch alone.

A second dimple, tender and unmistakable, carved into his pale skin like it had been waiting there all along, hidden just beneath the surface.

You are not the only one who notices.

Behind you, there is the unmistakable sound of someone choking on their own breath, followed by a very loud, "What the hell?" from James, his voice pitched somewhere between awe and utter disbelief.

Regulus glances up, his gaze catching on James, who is staring as if he has just witnessed stone turn to gold, like magic itself has unfolded right in front of him.

Sirius is uncharacteristically silent, eyes narrowed in something akin to suspicion or maybe even wonder, while James’s jaw is completely unhinged, glasses slipping precariously down the bridge of his nose.

Remus is blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear away a mirage, mouth slightly parted in surprise. And Mary—sweet, sharp-eyed Mary—looks positively gleeful, her grin spreading slow and wicked as she nudges Remus sharply in the ribs, her eyes dancing with triumph.

"I told you," she mouths, lips curving around each word with delight.

Because it is true.

There is no need to look closely, no need to squint or peer beneath shadows—Regulus Black’s dimples are right there, clear as daylight and twice as warm, so stunningly visible that they might as well have been carved out of starlight.

They blossom wide and unguarded, softening the sharp lines of his face, and for a heartbeat, he is not the boy forged from winter’s chill and midnight silence. He is something brighter, something softer, and it is plain to see that with you, he is allowed to be gentle.

"I told you!" you practically crow, turning back to face them while still locked in Regulus’s arms. "I told you he has dimples!"

Sirius remains silent, watching with something like suspicion, but James looks like he has seen a ghost.

James is still staring. "I think I need to sit down."

"You are sitting down," Remus points out.

"I think I need to sit down lower," James clarifies faintly.

But you are not paying attention to them anymore, because Regulus is looking at you with that same impossible smile, both dimples still lingering like promises.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking a gentle line across your skin. "You told them about my dimples?" he asks, voice low and edged with amusement.

You nod, breathless and unashamed. "I did. And they did not believe me."

His smile softens, stretching wider, and both dimples deepen like secret doorways to some hidden softness that only you are allowed to see.

He leans in, the space between you shrinking until his breath mingles with yours, and his voice drops to a low, velvety murmur meant only for you.

"You really should not spend so much time with Gryffindors," he whispers, his tone laced with quiet disdain that is more habit than heart, though his gaze remains warm and unyielding, crafted entirely for you. "I think they are starting to rub off on you." His eyes glimmer with amusement, but there is something else there too, something tender that settles in the quiet curve of his smile.

Your laughter spills out, bright and unrestrained, like the first crack of sunlight through winter clouds, and before you know it, your hands are tugging him closer, closing whatever space remains.

In that moment, it is just you and him, suspended in the fragile stillness that belongs only to the two of you, where the rest of the world feels distant and unimportant, something to be dealt with later.

For now, there is only this: his smile, his dimples carved like promises into his cheeks, and the gentle, unwavering warmth of his arms around you, holding you close as if he is terrified of letting go, as if this is a vow whispered into the spaces between heartbeats.

The truth is, Sirius had always known that Regulus had dimples.

He had known for years, had seen the faint creases carve themselves into his brother’s cheeks on the rarest of occasions, like fleeting whispers of a softer world beneath the ice.

But the thing is, those dimples only ever appeared when Regulus was around you, when your laughter spilled into the room like sunlight or when your name slipped from his mouth with that unguarded tenderness that seemed to unravel something deep and hidden in him.

She pronounced him perfectly healthy, apart from a slight deficiency in vitamin D, which hardly seemed enough to warrant the electric current that shot through him when you smiled at him across the library table.

It has become intolerable. A constant itch beneath his skin, one he cannot name and therefore cannot eradicate. He loathes not knowing.

And perhaps that is the real reason he now finds 1himself walking, fast and purposeful, through the stone corridors of the castle toward the Gryffindor common room. His feet move with a mind of their own, as though they have conspired against him. 

Ordinarily, this would be the last place he’d go—the last person he’d willingly seek out. Sirius was the antithesis of everything Regulus had spent years constructing himself to be: reckless where he was restrained, loud where he was quiet, sunlight blazing where Regulus preferred the shadows. 

He was not someone one went to for advice, and certainly not for something as delicate—no, as humiliating—as this private affliction that had begun to unravel him from the inside out.

And yet, here he was.

Perhaps it was some pitiful remnant of the little boy who used to run to his older brother with every scraped knee and broken toy, expecting Sirius to fix him like he always somehow did. Sirius had once been, in all accounts, his hero—not that he would ever admit it out loud. Sirius these days was usually spectacularly useless, sharing what appeared to be a single brain cell with that equally insufferable friend of his, Potter.

Still… maybe, just maybe, Sirius would know what was wrong with him.

Barty had been no help at all, only laughing until he nearly choked and remarking that Regulus’s obliviousness must be hereditary, some long-standing Black family defect. 

Pandora had been worse, pressing polished crystals into his palm and instructing him to sleep with them under his pillow. He had woken the next morning feeling exactly the same, except slightly humiliated.

So now he has been driven to this. To the humiliating thought of confessing his supposed illness to Sirius, who will either mock him mercilessly or, with even less dignity, try to be sincere about it.

The thought makes his stomach knot harder.

He turns the final corner and catches sight of his brother sprawled on a couch near the fireplace, laughter spilling out of him like sparks from the flames. Remus Lupin sits at his side, smiling in that quiet way of his, the sort of smile that seems to begin behind his eyes and ripple outward. 

Sirius is watching him with the soft, unguarded look Regulus has seen only a handful of times, and never directed at anyone else.

It is a look so drenched in affection it makes Regulus recoil instinctively. He stops in his tracks and stares, something sour rising in his chest. Not jealousy, certainly not that, but something adjacent to it. Disgust, perhaps, at the way Sirius wears his heart so obviously in his eyes. 

It is painfully clear, even to someone as emotionally inept as Regulus, that his brother is in love with Lupin. What an oblivious fool.

And somehow, that makes Regulus’s own predicament feel even more intolerable. Because if what Sirius has is love, then what is this thing strangling him from the inside whenever you walk into the room?

Regulus walked toward them with the stiff composure of someone trying not to unravel. Sirius was still laughing, head tipped back, hair falling across his face while Remus watched him with quiet amusement. Their ease made Regulus’s chest tighten. Everything here felt too warm, too bright, too loud, yet he forced his steps to stay even as he stopped before them.

Sirius spotted him and brightened instantly. 

“Oh Merlin,” he exclaimed. “Reggieeee!”

Regulus recoiled as though the word itself were corrosive. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Which is precisely why I do,” Sirius said easily, still grinning.

Regulus kept his face blank. Remus’s mouth twitched, though he wisely said nothing. Sirius lounged there, clearly waiting for some sharp retort, but Regulus gave him none.

“I need to speak with you,” Regulus said, his voice low and clipped. “Alone.”

Sirius raised his brows. “Alone, is it? That sounds suspicious.”

“Now,” Regulus added.

Something in his tone made Sirius glance at Remus, then back at him. “All right, all right.” He clapped Remus’s knee as he rose. “Duty calls.”

Regulus was already walking away. He could hear Sirius’s footsteps following, loose and unhurried, while his own felt like they might splinter the stone beneath him. The air grew cooler as they moved into the quieter corridors of the castle.

When they reached an empty side hallway, Regulus stopped. Sirius leaned casually against the wall, folding his arms.

“All right,” he said. “What’s this about? You look like you’re about to tell me someone died.”

Regulus stared at the far wall, searching for words. They refused to come. Sirius’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Reggie,” he said, his tone shifting. “You’re worrying me.”

“Stop calling me that,” Regulus muttered, though the usual bite was missing.

“Fine. Regulus, then.” Sirius straightened, the joking edge gone. “What’s going on?”

Regulus’s throat felt tight, like the words had caught there. He hated how unfamiliar this was, hated how everything inside him felt scattered and jagged. Sirius was watching him too closely.

“Something is wrong with me,” Regulus said at last. The words left him flat and cold.

Sirius blinked, his grin vanishing completely. “Wrong with you how?”

“I do not know,” Regulus admitted, the confession sour on his tongue. “It has been happening for months. My stomach twists. My hands sweat. My heart races without reason. I cannot breathe properly. It comes and goes, and when it comes, it is… intolerable.”

Sirius straightened from his slouch, brows furrowing. “Have you talked to Pomfrey?”

“I have,” Regulus said tightly. “She claimed I am perfectly healthy.”

“Are you?”

“Obviously not,” Regulus snapped, then immediately pinched the bridge of his nose like he regretted it.

Sirius raised his hands. “Alright, alright, don’t bite. Just asking.” He tilted his head, studying him. “When does it happen?”

Regulus stilled. “It varies.”

“That’s helpful,” Sirius muttered. “Does something trigger it? Quidditch? Exams? The crushing weight of our family name?”

“No,” Regulus said too quickly.

“Lack of sleep? Nerves? Guilt?” Sirius leaned in, squinting. “A hex from Mother?”

“No.”

Sirius gasped. “Wait. Have you been experimenting with Slughorn’s pickled… whatever-those-things-are?”

“I am not poisoned,” Regulus hissed.

“Fine, fine. Then what?”

Regulus opened his mouth, then shut it again. His jaw worked. The answer pressed against his ribs like something dangerous, like it would detonate if he said it aloud. The very thought of speaking your name here felt unthinkable.

“All right,” Sirius said finally, voice cautious. “Let’s think. Stomach pain. Sweaty palms. Heart racing. Can’t breathe. That… sounds terrible.”

“It is,” Regulus muttered.

Sirius frowned, rubbing his jaw as if that might stir some wisdom loose. “Could be something hereditary. Something that runs in the family.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”

“I don”t know.” Sirius shrugged. “A Black thing. We have enough of those.”

Regulus considered that, unwillingly. It was not implausible. Their family history was riddled with cursed heirlooms, unfortunate tendencies, and suspicious deaths. Some strange internal defect did not seem entirely out of the question.

Sirius studied him again. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I think I’ve had that before.”

Regulus stilled. “What?”

“The symptoms,” Sirius said, nodding. “Stomach doing somersaults, can’t breathe, whole body going mad. Yeah. I’ve had that.”

Regulus’s chest tightened. “When?”

Sirius squinted, thinking. “It happens sometimes when—” He cut himself off, eyes flicking away for a second before he added, too quickly, “It’s rare.”

“That is not an answer,” Regulus said sharply.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Fine. It happens when I’m around Remus.”

There was a pause, heavy and still.

Something in Regulus’s mind shifted, slow and terrible.

Sirius went on, oblivious. “Actually, only when I’m around him. Not anyone else. Which makes sense, I suppose. He’s… well. He’s him.”

Regulus felt the floor tilt beneath him.

Sirius continued, unaware that he had just detonated Regulus’s entire worldview. “Which is reassuring, in a way. If it were genetic, it would probably flare up more often. Unless it is dormant most of the time. Like a curse or gout. Except it only happens around Remus which is not so often, so I think I’m not in severe condition.”

Regulus did not move. His heart was a slow, pounding thunder.

Sirius went on blithely, warming to the topic. “Honestly, maybe it is a genetic condition triggered by proximity to certain stimuli. A reaction to pheromones, maybe. Or the family’s atrocious breeding habits finally catching up with us. Centuries of cousin-marriages, you know. Practically marinating in shared bloodlines. Perhaps our organs are simply confused.”

Regulus closed his eyes briefly.

Sirius was still rambling. “Actually, this explains everything. Imagine it: the Black family inbreeding-induced cardiac spasms. It would make sense. One moment you are fine, the next moment your heart is galloping and you want to vomit.”

Regulus’s thoughts were not poetic. They were a single, shrieking note.

Because Sirius had said it only happened around Remus.

And for Regulus, it only happened around you.

The realisation struck like a Bludger to the ribs.

It was not a disease. It was not some ancient curse fermenting in his bloodline.

It was the same thing Sirius felt for Remus.

And Regulus felt it for you.

The floor seemed to lurch. His stomach twisted so violently he thought for a moment he might actually collapse. Sirius was still talking about obscure magical blood disorders and their potential to cause mass hallucinations.

“I have to go,” Regulus said abruptly.

Sirius blinked. “What? No, hang on—”

“I said I have to go.” Regulus was already stepping back.

“Wait,” Sirius said, alarm creeping into his voice. “Reggie, what if this really is serious? What if we are both dying?”

“We are not dying, you bloody idiot!” he called over his shoulder.

“Are you sure?” Sirius yelled after him. “Because I think my left lung just twinged!”

Regulus did not respond. He lengthened his stride, desperate to get away before the walls witnessed his expression. The corridors blurred as Regulus walked, though the walk felt like too calm a word for the frantic momentum that carried him forward. His mind was a relentless chorus of how.

How had this happened.

How had it crept beneath his skin without him noticing.

How had you, of all people, become the fulcrum upon which his world suddenly tilted.

How had he been so careful all his life only to let this slip past his guard.

The more he tried to trace its origin, the more it dissolved like ink in water. There was no moment to dissect, no clean beginning to point at. There was only the hollow terror blooming in his chest and the unbearable truth of it thrumming in every nerve.

He had always assumed that if love came for him, it would be quiet. Civilised and contained. Instead it felt like standing too near a cliff’s edge in a storm, wind clawing at his coat, nothing beneath his feet but air.

No one had warned him that it would be this violent. And surely no one had warned him that it would be you.

By the time he reached the library, his hands were trembling.

He slipped through the door like a shadow, scanning the rows until his gaze caught on you.

There you were. Sitting at a table beneath the pale spill of lanternlight, a faint curve to your lips as you leaned toward a friend, speaking in a hushed voice meant only for them. You laughed softly at something she said.

He stood there, stranded between the shelves, mind roaring. What was he meant to do? Stalk toward you and declare that you had somehow dismantled every ordered structure within him? That your voice made his stomach twist and your smile made the world tilt on its axis? That he could not look at your lips without imagining them against his own, which was absurd and indecent and entirely unlike him?

He could not. He could never.

He was still silently berating himself when it happened.

“Regulus!”

Your voice. Clear, bright, cutting through the heavy quiet like sunlight through fog.

He startled slightly, caught. Your eyes found his, and you smiled like you had just spotted something familiar and dear.

“Come here,” you said.

And he did it helplessly as if you had tethered a string to his ribs and pulled.

Your friend rose, murmured something, and drifted away, leaving only the two of you in the pool of lamplight.

You began speaking again, something soft and casual, though the words slid past him without meaning. He watched your mouth move and thought of nothing else. His mind was all static, no thoughts at all, just the sound of your voice and the fragile thread of composure fraying rapidly between his fingers.

Then you stopped. Your head tilted slightly as your eyes searched his face.

“Are you alright?” you asked quietly. “You look troubled.”

Regulus blinked. The world felt very far away.

And then, as if his tongue had broken from his mind, the words escaped.

“Something is wrong with me.”

Silence fell.

“…What?” you said softly.

His breath caught. He could have stopped. He could have swallowed it back, concealed it like he concealed everything, but the dam had cracked. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said in a rush, the words spilling faster, tangled and frantic.

“I tried to ignore it. I thought it was nothing. I thought it would fade, but it has only grown worse.” he said in a rush, the words spilling faster, tangled and frantic. He sucked in a sharp breath and ran a hand down his face.

“Every time you are near, my heart becomes unbearable. It beats so hard I can feel it in my teeth, as though it is trying to escape. My palms sweat as if I have been hexed. I cannot speak properly, I cannot breathe, I cannot think. I look at you and it is as if the rest of the world disappears, and it terrifies me because I do not understand it” 

His jaw tightened, his voice trembling. “ I do not know how to control it. I have spent my whole life controlling everything and this is—” The world fractured with the touch of your lips.

One moment, Regulus was spilling out like water from a cracked glass, words breaking loose in sharp waves. The next, your mouth was on his, soft and steady and impossibly real.

Regulus went still, every muscle locked, breath suspended. His mind blanked, stunned into silence more absolute than any spell could achieve. The library dissolved. The stone and shelves and lanternlight ceased to exist.

There was only you.

Then you drew back, slow and careful, as if afraid he might shatter. The kiss seemed to have stolen all the air from the room, leaving only the sound of his own heart drumming raggedly inside his ribs.

Regulus stared. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, the pallor of his cheeks warming to a delicate rose. His lips were parted, flushed, a little damp, as though the memory of you still lingered there. He looked almost fragile, like someone startled awake from a dream and unsure what was real.

You smiled gently, watching him with quiet mischief as you leaned closer. Your voice was soft enough to be mistaken for a secret. “You know, I think I might be catching whatever it is you’ve got.”

His gaze flickered from your eyes down to your lips again and lingered there, unmoving, as if pulled by a force older than reason. Hunger kindled in him, stark and unguarded. He looked like a man possessed. Like someone who had just found his god and was ready to kneel.

In truth, he thought faintly, if this was a sickness, he would let it hollow him out entirely. He would let it claim every inch of him, if it meant hearing you say his name like that again.

Your hands rose, cupping his cheeks with featherlight care, and that was what undid him completely. He leaned into your palms like a starving thing.

His voice trembled. “Yeah?” he whispered. “You are?”

“Mhm,” you said, smiling against his silence.

Regulus leaned in, hesitant at first and pressed his mouth to yours. The kiss was deeper this time, more certain, though still careful, reverent. He kissed like someone who had spent his entire life denying himself sweetness and now, tasting it, feared it might vanish if he held it too tightly.

When he finally drew back, his eyes were luminous.

You rose from your chair with a soft laugh, catching his hands in yours as though it were the easiest thing in the world. Regulus let you, though his expression shifted to faint bewilderment as you tugged him toward the door.

“Wait,” he murmured, falling into step behind you as you led him out between the shelves. “Where are we going?”

“You will see,” you said lightly, and there was laughter in your voice, soft and ringing.

You led him out across the quiet courtyard, through the stone arch and down the familiar worn steps toward the edge of the Black Lake. The last scatterings of sunlight lay fractured across its surface like molten gold. The air smelled of pine and distant smoke. The world felt unreal.

You stopped at the water’s edge. The lake lay wide and dark before you, still enough to catch the bleeding colors of the sky.

“This is where I come,” you said softly, your voice losing its playful lilt. “When everything feels too loud. When I need the world to slow down.”

Regulus stood beside you, silent, gaze fixed on the reflection of your face trembling in the water.

“Do you feel better here?” he asked quietly.

“I do,” you said. “It feels calmer here.”

You studied him, tilting your head slightly. “Where do you go when you feel that way?”

Regulus hesitated. His hands flexed at his sides. He swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the water, gathering courage. “I… I go to you,” he said finally, soft, almost a whisper.

You froze. “To me?” Your brow arched, a mix of surprise and shock crossing your features.

Regulus lifted his gaze to yours, letting a small, tentative smile curl his lips. “You’re the only place that can calm me. That makes everything stop spinning. That makes me feel… steady.” His hands twitched slightly, as if holding himself back, and his voice caught on the last words.

You blinked, the warmth of the confession settling in. “I never knew. I didn’t think you felt that way about… about me.”

He shifted closer, brushing a shoulder lightly against yours, testing the space between you. “It isn’t something I can explain. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it. It’s… different.”

Regulus thought if this was faith, then you were the only divine thing he would ever kneel to.

The sky had faded into twilight, the lake’s surface catching the last bits of gold and pink from the sunset. The stones beneath your feet were cold, but the warmth of your hand in his made him forget the chill.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked, nudging his arm playfully. “Are you plotting something evil or just thinking too hard again?”

“I might be considering the consequences of… everything,” Regulus muttered, cheeks slightly pink, but he tried to sound serious.

“Consequences? What, like you’re worried you’ve fallen for me too quickly or that I might—”

“—think I'm absurdly foolish and hate me?” he interrupted, almost scowling, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

You laughed. “I thought you hated me. You always seemed to avoid me like I was a puddle you didn’t want to step in.”

Regulus froze. “Hate you?”

“Well, yeah,” you said, leaning closer. “I assumed you hated my company because you always acted… repulsed. Honestly, I thought you despised me.”

“I never meant to give that impression,” he said, flustered, hands fidgeting. “I was just trying to control myself.”

You smiled at him, bright and tender. “Regulus,” you said, voice low. “You’re ridiculous. But I like it.”

And there it was again, that sickness twisting in him, relentless and undeniable. His palms were slick with sweat, his heart hammering so fiercely. His skin itched to be near yours, every nerve screaming for contact, and those goddamn roaches stirred in his stomach, reminding him of every moment he had denied.

Regulus really was sick for you, utterly, hopelessly, and beautifully sick. But he did not mind. In truth, he would have welcomed any consequence of this disease. He would have gladly been buried alive in the weight of it, willingly swallowed by the madness of it, if it meant a single heartbeat near you. If it meant every breath carried your presence. 

He could die a thousand times and each time he would choose to feel this again, to surrender to it, to you. His body was burning, collapsing under the weight of it, and all it could think of, all it could feel, all it wanted, was you, you, you.

“Hey, Regulus,” you laced your fingers through his, warm and firm, pulling him back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts. The sudden connection made him startle, his racing mind stuttering to a halt.

He blinked, caught off guard, fingers tightening around yours without realizing it. “Yeah?”

And then, inevitably, there are the ones who stay. The ones who take root. Friends who become fixtures in our hours, our patterns, our very way of moving through the world. These are the companions who anchor us, shape us, and sometimes save us.

But of all the categories of human interaction, the most treacherous—by far the most damaging—are those who fall into that final, cruel compartment: the ones we spend a great deal of time loving, and even longer trying to forget.

Unfortunately for you, there are not one but two such individuals who haunt that particular category. 

The first is your mother, a woman of remarkable cruelty and unrelenting spite, whose presence in your life has left wounds no healing spell has yet managed to erase. Her voice remains embedded in the back of your mind, an echo that resurfaces in moments of quiet, and most especially in moments of fear. 

She is, by all accounts, what one might imagine the devil would send if he himself were otherwise detained.

And then there is Regulus Black.

Your ex-lover.

He occupied your heart for six brief months, and has plagued your memory for over a year since. In the hierarchy of harm, he should rank second; he did not raise you, did not abuse you, did not imprison you in your own home. 

And yet, in certain hours of the night, it is his name that claws to the surface first, his voice that revisits you in your dreams, not with cruelty—but with absence. With silence. With the terrible emptiness of what might have been.

You do not know which wound is more exhausting: the one left by the mother you were born to, or the one left by the boy who told you he loved you and then disappeared so thoroughly it felt like grief. 

What you do know is that you have, at the very least, escaped one of them. Your mother is not here. Hogwarts, for all its horrors, is mercifully free of her presence.

Regulus, however, is another matter entirely.

You see him no fewer than three times a day. Sometimes across the Great Hall, his expression unreadable beneath the sweep of dark hair. Sometimes in the library, hunched over his parchment with the same precision he used to study you. 

And sometimes—like now—you find him walking directly toward you, claiming proximity with the casual grace of someone who does not feel the ground shift beneath your feet when he appears.

He is here for a book. That is all. A book Remus happens to have tucked under his arm. The corridor is quiet, the class bell not yet rung. You had been mid-conversation with Remus, about Arithmancy of all things, when you felt the air change.

You did not need to look to know it was him.

And yet, of course, you did.

Now he stands before you, perfectly composed, as if he does not know the state of your hands, the sudden sweat on your palms, the weight in your chest. 

As if you are no more significant to him than any other girl waiting beside her friend. As if he has not occupied every corner of your memory for the past twelve months.

“Lupin,” he says, his voice smooth and quiet, carrying just enough weight to command attention without raising its volume. “You still have that copy of Magical Theory I lent you last month?”

Remus adjusts the strap of his bag. “I do,” he replies, with an expression that flickers between casual politeness and something more watchful. “Was wondering if you’d ever come for it.”

“I meant to earlier,” Regulus says. “Life interfered.”

His eyes shift momentarily toward you, too fleeting to be called a glance, scarcely more than a subtle movement. 

Yet somehow, it ignites a warmth within you. You lower your gaze to the floor, as though it might provide a refuge from the weight of that silent acknowledgement.

Remus reaches into his bag and withdraws the book. “Here,” he says. “Try not to annotate the margins next time. Some of us actually care what the author meant.”

Regulus takes the book with a quiet nod. “Noted.”

You wait until he turns the corner before your shoulders finally drop, teeth clenched so tightly your jaw begins to ache. 

You exhale harshly through your nose, then turn on your heel, your shoes hitting the stone floor with unforgiving purpose.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, storming ahead, your robes flaring behind you. “Why the hell is he everywhere I go?”

Remus hurries after you, a half-confused, half-amused expression tugging at his mouth. “Is it my fault Regulus wanted a bloody book?”

“Oh, don’t act innocent,” you snap, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him down a side corridor. “Why are you even talking to him?”

He blinks in surprise. “Because he’s at Hogwarts, in the same school, studying in the same halls and library? I am not twelve, severing ties as if cutting a frayed thread. Some connections persist whether we want them to or not.”

You stop short. “Well, you are breaking the biggest girl code ever.”

Remus blinks, confused. “Pardon? Girl what?”

“You heard me. Girl code.”

He raises a brow. “I’m not even a girl!”

“You’re gay!” you fire back without missing a beat. “Girl code applies.”

He throws his head back and laughs, hand over his chest as if you have just confessed your undying love. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

You glare. “You are not supposed to associate with your friend’s ex. Especially when he’s an emotionally constipated bastard who left me without a single decent explanation. What’s next? You going to lunch with him and chatting about his new broomstick?”

“I’m sorry!” he says, still chuckling. “But in all seriousness, you’re acting like he cursed your name into a grave.”

“Remus,” you hiss, pulling him closer by the edge of his robe. “You don’t get it. Every time I think I’m okay, every time I’m having a semi-decent day, he appears. He just slinks in like some bloody ghost and ruins everything.”

“You hate him that much?”

“I hate that he’s still here. I hate that I spent six months giving everything to someone who couldn’t give me one sentence of honesty in return!”

There’s a long pause. Remus watches you carefully now, the humor softening into something gentler.

“You know,” he says quietly, “it bothers you that he doesn’t look bothered.”

You freeze.

“That’s what this is,” he goes on, his voice not unkind. “You’re mad because he ended it, and he walks around like he doesn’t regret it.”

You scoff, though it sounds brittle in your throat. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve moved on.”

“Have you?”

“I have,” you say, too quickly. “He ended things because of his own issues or whatever, which, by the way, he never even told me about. Just decided I didn’t need to know, like I wasn’t worth the effort.”

Remus sighs, eyes flicking toward the stained glass window at the end of the corridor. “He didn’t think he could make you stay.”

“I would’ve stayed,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies. “But Regulus doesn’t believe anyone stays.”

You feel something hot sting the backs of your eyes, but you blink it away. 

You’ve cried enough over Regulus Black to fill every basin in the castle.

“Well,” you say, lifting your chin, “he was wrong, because now I’m gone. And this time, I’m the one who’s staying gone.”

“Well,” Remus began, his tone far too casual for your liking, “I’m afraid I must tell you that you do share a class with Regulus Black. Defense Against the Dark Arts, to be precise.”

You blink slowly, dread blooming like a headache. “I feel like this entire week has been designed to ruin me.”

Remus offered a small nod, watching as you turned and made your way toward your classroom. You exchanged a brief glance, an unspoken understanding passing between you, before each of you vanished into the corridors leading to your separate lessons.

The classroom is already half-full by the time you arrive. Pandora catches your eye and gestures to the seat beside her near the front. You gratefully accept and settle in. 

Moments later, the chair behind you scrapes against the floor, and without needing to turn, you know who it is. Of course it is him. Regulus Black. The universe never misses an opportunity to mock you.

The professor strides into the room with a quiet authority, his robes flowing behind him as he surveys the class.

“Wands out,” he commands without preamble. “Today we continue our practice of spell deflection and countering dark magic. If you failed to revise over the weekend, I advise you remain silent and take diligent notes. This lesson will be entirely practical.”

A few students murmur in quiet protest. You share a brief glance with Pandora, who offers a small, knowing smile.

Pairs are assigned swiftly. Pandora finds herself paired with Dorcas, while you are left with a boy whose uncertain grip on his wand betrays his inexperience, as if he cannot quite discern which end poses the true danger. 

The duel begins with harmless exchanges. Spells burst into vivid flashes of light, Protego charms shimmer and ripple like liquid glass, and stunning spells bounce in practiced arcs. 

You move through the motions with practiced detachment—cast, block, repeat—finding solace in the rhythm that dulls the edges of your anxiety. Your partner flinches at every near miss but perseveres. 

Gradually, you settle into a steady cadence, grateful for the distraction it provides from the presence a few feet behind you: Regulus Black, undoubtedly observing your every move with an inscrutable gaze.

And then something shifts.

It happens so fast you almost miss it — a wand flicks too hard across the room, a shield charm is cast too late. A spell that was meant to be redirected suddenly veers off its original path. 

It slices through the air with a sound that’s too loud, too sharp. The kind of sound magic makes when it goes wrong.

You see it out of the corner of your eye. A bolt of deep violet light, spiraling toward you in a jagged line. 

Before you can react, it hits.

The curse slams into your side like a live wire. You stagger backward, your wand slipping from your fingers as your entire left side lights up with blinding heat. 

Your shoulder crashes into the desk behind you. The air tears from your lungs.

There’s a split second of silence before the chaos.

You collapse to your knees. The floor feels far too cold beneath your palms. A ragged breath escapes you, but it catches halfway. 

Pain spreads through your ribs like someone’s carving fire through them, sharp and hot and crawling beneath your skin. You press a hand to your side and it comes away wet.

Red, bright, and vivid red.

Your name rings out, repeated more than once, but the sound feels distant, muffled, as if heard from beneath water.

“Do not move!” the professor’s voice commands, cutting sharply through the noise. You flinch at the sudden intensity. “Everyone, step back.”

Yet before the room can obey, firm hands grasp your shoulders—steady, anchoring. For a moment, you believe it to be Pandora, but then a gentler touch brushes your hair aside, and your name is spoken once more, quieter this time, urgent.

The world around you bursts into chaos.

Voices rose in panic. Footsteps thundered against the stone floor. The professor’s sharp commands cut through the chaos, urgent calls for help echoing around you.

You curled on the cold floor, your side burning with a fierce, unyielding pain.

Hands reached for you hesitantly, some too firm, others too gentle. Shadows flickered in the candlelight as the heat and noise closed in—too much, too close.

And suddenly, your mind is no longer in the classroom.

You are nine years old again, backed into the far corner of the drawing room. The wallpaper is peeling. The curtains are drawn. The air smells like ash and liquor and old perfume. 

Your mother’s voice is a velvet snarl, sweet and poisonous. Her wand is steady, raised like a promise, and you are not fast enough to run this time.

The spell hits your shoulder. You remember the way it felt—the tearing heat, the way your skin split without bleeding, the way she looked bored as you screamed. 

You remember the way no one came.

Back in the present, your chest heaves. The pain in your side is spreading, but it is nothing compared to the one cracking open inside your skull. 

You shove at the hands reaching for you and hear yourself cry out. 

“Get off me,” you sob, though no one is holding you anymore.

You clutch your side with trembling hands, shaking your head, rocking forward, trying to escape a memory you cannot outrun.

“She is in shock,” someone says, far away and echoing.

“I need everyone to back away,” the professor’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and commanding. “Now!”

You are sobbing uncontrollably now, your entire body convulsing with it. It is not the pain of your wound that has undone you. It is memory. It is fear so old and familiar it has worn grooves into your bones.

“Can she hear us?”

“Merlin, she is bleeding through her robes—”

“She is panicking—she is not breathing right—”

You want to tell them to stop. You want to scream until the noise stops, until the hands disappear, until your mother’s voice fades from the corners of your mind.

But all you can do is cry.

Cry and tremble and bleed.

Cry and fold into yourself like you used to, like you always have, like it is the only thing that has ever kept you safe.

And for the first time in a very long time, you feel utterly, irrevocably powerless.

Regulus reaches you first. His presence carves through the panic like a blade through water, sharp and inevitable, silencing the rush of footsteps and the flurry of voices.

“Move,” he says, his voice low yet carrying an authority that makes the crowd hesitate. 

When no one obeys quickly enough, his tone sharpens into something unmistakably furious. “Move the fuck away from her!”

He drops to his knees beside you, the wool of his robes brushing the stone floor, and for the smallest moment his hands hover, trembling slightly, before he gathers you into his arms. 

The movement is careful, protective, and almost desperate, as though he fears you might dissolve into nothing if he holds you too tightly.

Your cheek finds the sharp line of his shoulder, and you feel the rise and fall of his breathing, quick and uneven. 

His hand presses lightly to your back, the other cupping the side of your face as though to anchor you.

“Breathe,” he murmurs gently by your ear, his voice soft and laden with unspoken affection. The fury from before fades into a trembling vulnerability, as if your pain unsettles him to his core. “Please, just breathe for me. It is done now. You are safe in my arms—no one will ever hurt you again. I swear it. I will not let go.”

You cling to him without thought, your hands fisting into his robes so tightly that you feel the fabric strain. He holds you just as fiercely, his head bowing until his temple rests against yours.

“She needs space!” he shouts suddenly at the few students who dare step closer, his voice snapping like a whip. “Do not come near her!”

The professor’s voice calls for Madam Pomfrey, hurried and strained, but you hardly hear it over the pounding of your heart. 

Regulus rocks you slightly, murmuring in low tones that you cannot entirely understand, only catching fragments. “Stay with me… just a little longer… you are here, not there…”

You are trembling so violently that your teeth ache from the force of it, and still you do not loosen your grip. 

Your mind flickers between the present and the past until it becomes unbearable, and the last thing you feel is the steady, protective cage of his arms before everything fades to black.

***

When you open your eyes, the air smells faintly of antiseptic potions and the crisp, laundered sheets beneath you are unfamiliar. The ceiling is high and white, the room softly lit. Your side throbs with a dull, persistent ache.

Regulus is sitting beside your bed. His elbows rest on his knees, his hands clasped loosely, his head lowered in thought. He looks nothing like the cold, distant boy you have seen for the past year. 

There is a rawness in his expression, a weight in the shadows beneath his eyes that makes him appear older, thinner, almost as though the worry has been consuming him for longer than you can comprehend.

The moment you stir, his head lifts sharply. His eyes, dark and searching, find yours, and in that instant, he is on his feet. 

Without a word, he strides to the door and calls for Madam Pomfrey, his voice edged with relief and urgency.

The matron sweeps in with brisk efficiency, her wand already in hand. “You gave us quite a scare,” she says, moving to your side and inspecting the area where the curse struck. 

Her wand hovers, emitting a faint golden glow. “You took a direct hit from a poorly cast Stinging Hex. Normally it would leave only a welt, but the spell was overcharged, which accounts for the severity of your pain. The student responsible has been assigned two weeks’ detention, and your professor was furious enough to petition for expulsion. The Headmaster intervened, so it will not come to that, but rest assured it will not happen again.”

You nod faintly, the words slipping over you like water without truly sinking in.

Madam Pomfrey continues, “You will feel discomfort for several days. The damage to the muscle has been repaired, but it will remain tender. Avoid strenuous movement, and come back for a check-up tomorrow morning.” 

She sets a small vial on the table. “For the pain. Do not take more than two sips at a time.”

Once she leaves, the room is silent again except for the faint rustle of the sheets as you shift. Your gaze drifts back to Regulus.

“You stayed,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intended.

The moment the curtain shuts behind Madam Pomfrey, he crosses the short space between your bed and the chair he had been occupying, his movements sharp with urgency. 

“Are you in pain? Does anything still hurt?” His eyes move across your face and shoulders and down to where your side is bandaged, his expression tight with something between fear and anger.

You shake your head, though the dull ache in your ribs remains. It is not the pain that feels unbearable now, but the fact that he is here, leaning over you, close enough for his breath to brush your cheek. 

“Regulus,” you murmur, your voice scratchy from the earlier screaming, “what are you doing here?”

His eyes flash, the crease between his brows deepening. “What am I doing here? What kind of question is that?” He pulls his hand back, as though your words have burned him. “You were lying on the floor, shaking, barely breathing. Of course I am here.”

Your lips press together, the faintest tremor in your jaw. “You have spent a year avoiding me. I thought you made it clear that my wellbeing was no longer your concern.”

He exhales through his nose, sharp and incredulous. “That is what you think? That I could watch you suffer and simply walk away?”

“Is that not exactly what you did before?” Your tone sharpens without your meaning to, the words tasting of months of hurt. 

“You left, Regulus. You left without a word, and now you appear out of nowhere, acting as though you have the right to stand here and—”

He cuts you off, his voice suddenly louder. “Do you think I wanted to leave? Do you think I did it lightly?” His hand runs through his hair, the gesture breaking the perfect composure he used to guard so jealously. “I had reasons. You would not have understood.”

Your gaze hardens. “I would have understood if you had given me the chance!  I would have stood beside you, no matter what, but you never gave me the choice. You just vanished.”

His voice drops to something quieter, almost desperate. “I thought I was protecting you.”

You shake your head, your voice shaking now. “You were protecting yourself. You decided I could not handle the truth, or that I was better off without you, and you did not even let me fight for us.”

There is a silence so heavy it feels as though the room itself is holding its breath. His eyes do not leave yours, and in them you see the glimmer of something painfully familiar, something you have not seen in a year.

When he speaks again, the words seem torn out of him. “I never stopped caring for you. Not for one day. I stayed away because I thought it was safer.”

Your own breath hitches, the anger still burning but tangled now with something warmer and far more dangerous. “You cannot say things like that, Regulus. Not after everything.”

His voice softens, but the intensity in it remains. “I am saying it because it is the truth. I still—” He stops, his jaw tightening as though the admission is almost too much. “I still love you. And I can’t help that.”

Your voice cracks when you finally say it. “What do you mean you still love me, Regulus?”

His head jerks back slightly, as though the words hit harder than any hex. “You heard me,” he says, his tone sharp, almost defensive. “Do not act surprised.”

“How could I not be surprised?” Your fingers knot into the blanket, your chest rising too fast. “You walked away and you never looked back.”

He takes a step closer, his expression tightening. “And you think that means I stopped caring?”

“It means you stopped everything!” The pitch of your voice trembles. “You stopped writing, you stopped meeting me, you stopped—” Your throat closes. 

Something flashes behind his eyes, frustration sparking like flint. “I never stopped.”

The heat in the room becomes unbearable. You swing your legs off the bed, the urge to escape flooding your body, but as soon as your feet touch the ground, pain lances through your side and you stumble forward.

In a heartbeat his arms are around you, one hand braced at your waist, the other steadying your back. 

He lifts you effortlessly, setting you down again with such precision it feels almost angry.

“Would you just listen to me, woman?” His voice is low and fierce, his face only inches from yours. You can feel the rush of his breath against your cheek, the tension humming between your bodies.

Your heartbeat rattles in your ribs. “Then talk.”

“Why do you think I pretend to want Lupin’s wretched annotated books?” His tone grows sharper with each word. 

“Why do you think I force our schedules to match? Why do I visit the Gryffindor tower under the excuse of seeing Sirius? It is because I bloody care about your well-being! I always have. So do not, for one moment, question me.”

His gaze holds yours with an intensity that steals your breath. Slowly, deliberately, he closes the distance between you. When his lips meet yours, it is as if all the years of silence, pain, and longing have been building toward this one desperate, fervent moment—fierce, unyielding, and weighted with all the words he never found the courage to speak.

When you finally drew back, the space between you was narrow enough for his breath to brush against your cheek. 

“I owe you an apology,” he said at last, his voice softer now but still unwavering. He reached up, gently cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks. 

After a heartbeat, he leaned closer, closing the small space between you just enough to let his breath mingle with yours. “For every moment I left you to wonder whether you mattered to me, for allowing you to believe that you were a passing sentiment instead of the one truth I have carried with me all these years.”

He paused, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “I was a coward in the way I walked away, and I will regret it for as long as I live.”

You parted your lips to answer, but before the words could form, the curtain at your bedside was suddenly pulled aside. Sirius and Remus peeked in, their eyes immediately taking in the quiet intimacy between you and Regulus.

Sirius’s voice cut through the stillness with a teasing edge. “Hi!—wait—what exactly is going on here?”

Remus’s hand shot out, grabbing Sirius by the collar and pulling him back. “Let them have their moment, will you?” he muttered, dragging Sirius away gently but firmly.

“Oww! Fine, fine,” Sirius grumbled, shooting you a cheeky grin as he retreated.

As the curtain swished closed behind them, a short laugh escaped you both, the tension easing as your conversation resumed.

With a sly smile, you tilted your head and leaned in just enough to catch his attention. “Now that I realize…” you began, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Your fingers slid up to the collar of his robe, tugging him gently but deliberately closer until the space between you vanished.

“Does that mean you were sneaking books from Remus just to see me?” you teased softly, your voice dripping with playful accusation.

Regulus’s cheeks flushed a shade deeper, an almost imperceptible crack in his usual composed facade. “Stop it,” he muttered, half embarrassed, half amused.

“Oh, come now,” you coaxed, your grin widening. “You must have known I’d find out eventually. Was I your secret motivation to studying all along?”

He swallowed, then tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours with something softer, hopeful. “Does that mean… I can be your boyfriend again?”

You feigned hesitation, arching a brow with theatrical deliberation. “Hmm. I don’t know, Black. Does that mean you’ll get all depressed and disappear on me again?”

His lips quirked into a pout, the vulnerability both infuriating and endearing. “I thought you liked your boys a little depressed.”

You laughed quietly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Only if it’s you.”

His smile was genuine now, a rare and precious thing. “So, I am forgiven?”

“Absolutely,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. “But only if you promise to stick around this time.”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “For you, I’ll try very hard.”

A gentle smile curved your lips, warmth radiating from your gaze. “Good,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “Because there is something I need to hear from you.”

Slowly, you lifted your hands to cradle his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as your eyes locked with his. “Promise me this,” you murmured, your tone both tender and resolute, “no more secrets between us. No more disappearing without a word. I want all of you, completely, without reservation.”

His smile softened as he leaned into your touch. “All of me is yours, amour.”

For a moment, you simply held each other’s gaze, the world outside fading into quiet stillness. 

Then, with deliberate gentleness, he leaned in slowly, his breath warm against your cheek as his eyes searched yours for any hesitation. 

When none came, he pressed his lips softly to yours, a kiss that held both promise and forgiveness, tender and unwavering.

As he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, he whispered, “Just don’t die on me, alright?”

You chuckled softly, the sound bubbling up effortlessly. “I’ll try not to.”

A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes as he smiled. “Je t’aime.”

You rolled your eyes with a playful grin. “Gosh, I missed your French accent.”