Chapter Text
The emerald flames flickered softly in the Slytherin common room, casting long shadows over the dark green walls and the polished black marble floor. Regulus sat on the corner of a wide, overstuffed armchair, his long fingers loosely holding his wand. The carved serpent at its base felt smooth against his palm, a comforting weight in a room that always felt too heavy.
He stared into the fire, watching the way the green flames twisted and writhed like snakes, their motion hypnotic. This was how Regulus liked his evenings: quiet, unbroken, a place where he could think without interruption. Everyone else had gone to bed already, the echoes of whispered conversations and muffled laughter fading into the stillness. But Regulus was no stranger to silence. In fact, he preferred it.
Silence didn’t judge.
Earlier that day, he had received a letter from his mother. He didn’t need to pull it out again to know every word by heart. They were burned into his memory like the family crest branded onto his soul.
Regulus,
The time has come for you to prove yourself. Unlike your brother, you still have the potential to be a credit to the Black name. Do not squander this final year. Show them all what true strength and loyalty look like.
She hadn’t signed it with Love, Mother. She never did. Affection was a foreign concept in the Black household, something whispered about like a forbidden spell.
Regulus hadn’t shown the letter to anyone. Barty would laugh, probably, and say something dismissive about how his own father wasn’t any better. Barty’s solution to everything was to laugh it off, even the bruises. But Regulus couldn’t laugh at the heavy weight in his chest.
He had spent his entire life trying to be the son his parents wanted, and yet no matter what he did, he was always compared to Sirius.
Sirius.
The name was a dull ache in the back of Regulus’ mind. Two years had passed since his brother had stormed out of Grimmauld Place, and not a day went by when Regulus didn’t think about it. He couldn’t hate Sirius, even if it would make things easier.
Sometimes, late at night, he replayed their last conversation.
“Reggie, please, come with me,” Sirius had begged, his voice cracking with desperation.
Regulus had refused. He’d said things he hadn’t meant, cruel words designed to push Sirius away. He told himself it was for Sirius’ own good, that if one of them was going to break free, it had to be Sirius. But deep down, he knew he had done it for himself. To stay. To survive.
Regulus shook his head, trying to banish the memory. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t change it. He had chosen his path, and Sirius had chosen his.
The sound of the common room door opening pulled Regulus from his thoughts. He glanced up, half-expecting to see one of the younger students sneaking in past curfew. Instead, it was Barty.
Barty Crouch Jr. always had a certain swagger about him, as if he owned the world and everyone in it. His brown hair was tousled, and his robes were slightly askew, but he wore his usual insufferable grin.
“Still awake, Reggie?” he said, flopping down onto the couch across from Regulus.
Regulus sighed, not bothering to hide his irritation. “What do you want, Barty?”
Barty stretched out, his legs draped over the arm of the couch nonchalantly. “Oh, nothing much. Just thought you’d like to know you’ve been summoned.”
Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Summoned?”
“Slughorn wants you,” Barty said, biting into an apple he’d apparently stolen from the kitchens. “Something about tutoring some hopeless idiot in Potions. I told him you wouldn’t be interested, but you know Slughorn. Once he’s got an idea, there’s no stopping him.”
Regulus frowned. The last thing he needed was more responsibility. His schedule was already packed with NEWT-level courses and the constant pressure of maintaining top marks.
“Who is it?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Barty’s grin widened, and that was answer enough. He regretted asking as soon as the words left Barty's mouth.“James Potter.”
Regulus’ stomach sank. Of all the people Slughorn could have assigned him to tutor, it had to be him.
---
Regulus didn’t sleep well that night. By the time he arrived at the Potions classroom the next afternoon, he was already in a foul mood.
The room smelled of stale potion ingredients and faintly of burnt herbs, a combination that always made Regulus feel oddly at ease. He had arrived early, as he always did, and was sitting at one of the back tables when the door creaked open.
James Potter strolled in, fifteen minutes late and unapologetic.
Regulus watched him with the same detached curiosity one might reserve for an experiment. James was everything Regulus wasn’t—loud, reckless, and annoyingly charming. His tie was loose, his shirt slightly untucked, and his ever-messy hair stuck out in all directions.
“Black,” James said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Potter,” Regulus replied coolly.
James dropped into the chair across from him, drumming his fingers on the table. “So, how’s this going to work? You lecture me for an hour, I nod and pretend to understand, and then we both go our separate ways?”
Regulus narrowed his eyes. “If you want to waste your time, Potter, feel free. But I have no intention of wasting mine. So unless you’re serious about improving, don’t bother showing up next time.”
James blinked, clearly taken aback by the bluntness. “Right. Got it. No slacking off.”
Regulus didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled out his notes, spreading them neatly across the table.
“Let’s start with the basics,” he said, his tone clipped. “Show me your last essay on Amortentia.”
James winced. “Yeah, about that…”
Regulus sighed. This was going to be a long afternoon.
The first twenty minutes were agonizing. James couldn’t seem to focus, his attention wandering to the various jars of ingredients lining the walls. He asked too many questions, most of which had little to do with the subject at hand.
“Do you think Amortentia actually works?” James asked, leaning back in his chair.
Regulus gave him a withering look. “Of course it works. It’s one of the most potent potions in existence. That’s why it’s banned from practical use.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Potter,” Regulus interrupted, his patience fraying. “If you spent half as much time studying as you do talking, you might actually pass this class.”
James raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No need to get snippy.”
Regulus ignored him, focusing instead on the potion they were supposed to be brewing. He measured out the powdered moonstone with practiced precision, watching as the mixture turned a pale lavender.
“Your turn,” he said, sliding the ingredients toward James.
James hesitated, then picked up the measuring spoon. His movements were clumsy, and Regulus resisted the urge to correct him. When James finally added the powdered moonstone to the cauldron, the potion hissed and turned an alarming shade of green.
“Well, that’s not right,” James said, grimacing.
“No, it’s not,” Regulus said dryly. “Try again.”
By the end of the session, James had managed to produce something that vaguely resembled a functioning potion. It wasn’t perfect, but it was an improvement.
“Not bad,” Regulus admitted grudgingly. “You might actually stand a chance if you keep this up.”
James smirked, but there was something tired in his expression. “Thanks, I think.”
As they packed up their things, Regulus found himself watching James more closely. There was something about him that didn’t quite match the loud, carefree image he projected. He seemed…tired. Worn down. Almost as if he was carrying a weight no one else could see.
Regulus shook the thought away. It wasn’t his business.
---
Later that night, Regulus sat alone in his dormitory, staring at his journal. He had filled half a page with disjointed thoughts, none of which made sense.
For the first time, he wondered what it would be like to be someone like James Potter. Someone who could laugh and joke without worrying about the consequences. Someone who didn’t have a family legacy hanging over their head like a guillotine.
He closed the journal with a sigh, setting it aside. Tomorrow would bring another tutoring session, another hour of carefully constructed facades and simmering tension.
And perhaps, beneath it all, the beginnings of something unexpected.