The house was silent.
Not the peaceful silence that wrapped itself around late nights in Grimmauld Place — the kind of quiet that felt familiar and comforting, like a blanket tucked around weary bones. No, this silence was different. It was heavy, smothering, like a suffocating weight pressing down on every corner of the room. It was the silence of a place abandoned, not just by its inhabitants but by the very echoes of its past. Even the ghosts seemed to have fled, leaving nothing but the cold emptiness behind.
Regulus sat at his desk, his back rigid, his fingers twitching but refusing to move. The quill hovered above a scrap of parchment, untouched, as if the words had stopped coming altogether. For long minutes, the only sound in the room was the faint, restless flicker of the candle at his elbow. It sputtered in the draft that sneaked in from the cracked window, casting long, shuddering shadows against the walls, shadows that seemed to stretch and curl, as if the very house itself was trying to escape from the weight of the quiet.
His old Quidditch posters, once bright and full of life, hung limp now, their colors faded to a dull wash. The edges curled up like the remnants of something forgotten. A photograph of Sirius, charred along the corners, still clung to the edge of the mirror, as if it, too, refused to let go. It was a relic, a ghost of a time long gone.
Regulus closed his eyes. For just a moment, he allowed himself to remember.
James laughing, his voice loud and full of life, tugging Regulus into the lake at Hogwarts on a summer afternoon when the sun was still warm and the world seemed endless. James shouting himself hoarse during a Qudditich match, his face flushed with the heat of competition and pride, pretending he was cheering for the other team but Regulus knew. He knew it was for him. James kissing him, breathless and fierce, in some forgotten corridor, a kiss that tasted of promises they’d never spoken aloud. A kiss that felt like it meant something.
Regulus opened his eyes again. His hand was trembling.
It was a feeling that clawed at him, deep inside. They hadn’t spoken properly in months. The last time their words had crossed paths, they had been sharp, cruel - too sharp, too cruel. The kind of words that left marks, even when they were forgotten. And yet, despite the silence, despite everything that had broken between them, there was a flicker of something inside him. A part of Regulus - small and pathetic and burning too brightly - that needed James to know the truth. Even if James hated him now. Even if James never forgave him. Even if James never even saw the words.
He dipped his quill into the ink, steadying his hand, and began to write. Each word came slowly, carefully, as if Regulus had to ensure that every letter, every line, was shaped with honesty. There could be no half-truths here. No lies.
When he finished, he folded the parchment with hands that didn’t quite stop shaking. The folds were sharp, precise, the kind of care that felt foreign now. He sealed it with a flick of his wand, watching the wax melt and harden into the mark of finality.
"Kreacher," he said, his voice almost drowned out by the silence, hoarse from words he had never quite managed to speak.
There was a soft pop, and Kreacher appeared, his wide, watery eyes blinking up at Regulus. The old house-elf’s thin, hunched form seemed even smaller in the dim light, but there was no mistaking the look in his eyes. Kreacher had been the only one Regulus could trust with this. The only one who would understand, even if he couldn’t say it aloud.
Regulus crouched down to Kreacher’s level, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest. He placed the folded note carefully into the elf’s hands, each movement deliberate.
"When... when it’s over," Regulus said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper, "make sure he gets this. James Potter. He might not want it, but it’s important."
Kreacher nodded fiercely, clutching the parchment to his chest like a sacred vow. His eyes were wide with a kind of solemn understanding, the elf’s loyalty unspoken but strong.
Regulus gave a small, broken smile. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. "Thank you," he whispered, the words too soft to carry any further.
Then, standing slowly, Regulus smoothed down the front of his robes, the action automatic, a final attempt to maintain some semblance of control in the face of everything that had unraveled. Without looking back, he made his way to the door.
He paused at the threshold, his hand on the doorknob. For a moment, the weight of the house behind him pressed against his back. The walls, full of memories he couldn’t carry, seemed to push against him, urging him to stay. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
His heart was heavy with the things he hadn’t said, with the words that would never reach James.
And ahead of him, stretching out into the night, was only darkness, only the dark water of the end he had chosen. It was a choice, one he had made in quiet, cold moments, far from the reach of anyone else’s expectations.
Regulus Black squared his shoulders, took a breath, and stepped out of the door.
Behind him, Kreacher’s presence was already gone. The house was even quieter now, empty of both its ghosts and its echoes.
And then, with a soft pop, they were gone.
The flat smelled like burnt toast and leftover Firewhisky.
The light outside was weak, filtering through the grimy kitchen windows in slanted beams, catching in the haze of cigarette smoke that still lingered in the air. The ashtray on the table was full, its contents mostly ignored by the three occupants of the flat. James sat with his back against the chair, messy hair sticking out at odd angles, butter knife in hand, still arguing with Remus about whether chocolate could actually qualify as breakfast food.
Sirius, emerging from the bathroom, was still tugging a T-shirt over his head. He yawned loudly, stretching his arms above his head. “You two sound like a married couple,” he muttered, his voice hoarse from sleep.
Remus didn’t even look up from the crossword in front of him. “Jealous?”
James snorted, taking a bite of toast. “Of you?” He grinned, crumbs falling from his mouth. “Nah, he just wants a piece of my perfect domestic life.”
Sirius arched an eyebrow, his lips curling into a dry smile. “Your domestic life includes a fridge that groans every time you open it.”
With a deadpan expression, he flopped down into the chair opposite James and Remus, grabbing the Daily Prophet that had been carelessly tossed onto the table. The owl that had delivered it still had feathers stuck to the crusts of James’s toast, unbothered and unhurried.
Sirius flicked open the paper with one hand, his eyes automatically scanning the front page as he sipped his tea, the warmth of the cup contrasting with the chill in the room. But then, in the middle of a sip, he froze.
The cup clinked too loudly against the saucer.
James, still chewing, glanced up. “Sirius?”
But Sirius didn’t answer.
His eyes were locked onto the front page of the paper, his face draining of color. There, in black ink, the headline screamed at him louder than any shout could:
BLACK HEIR DEAD - Regulus Arcturus Black Found Dead Under Mysterious Circumstances
A grainy photo of Regulus, probably taken during his time at Hogwarts, stared back at them. His expression was cold, distant, the image of a boy trapped in the mask of his family’s expectations, stiff and formal in his green-and-silver robes. Beneath the photo, the small print seemed almost like an afterthought: Ministry suspects internal conflict among Death Eaters. No body recovered. Family declines to comment.
Sirius’s chair scraped sharply against the floor as he shot to his feet too quickly. The paper crumpled in his hand like it was made of ash.
“No,” he breathed, his voice raw and disbelieving. “No, no, that’s-”
James was already on his feet, his heart pounding. “What is it? What’s-”
He caught sight of the paper before he even reached Sirius, and everything in his chest caved in all at once.
The grainy photo of Regulus, frozen in time, all sharp angles and serious eyes, looking like a boy who never had a chance to grow up. James didn’t even process the rest of the text. The words blurred in front of him, nothing more than shapes and noise. All he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears, drowning out everything else.
No. This can’t- this isn’t-
He shoved the paper back onto the table, the motion almost violent, like it burned his fingers.
Sirius stood, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his fists clenched tightly in his hair. His gaze was distant, lost in some place far from the kitchen. “I thought he was safe,” he whispered, his voice shaking, cracking under the weight of the words. “I thought- he always followed the rules. He wouldn’t- He wasn’t supposed to die before me.”
James took a step toward him, his mind racing, heart racing, the words caught somewhere between his throat and his tongue. “Padfoot-”
“Don’t,” Sirius said, his voice so quiet it almost broke James. His hands fell to his sides, trembling. “Don’t say anything. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
The words that James had wanted to say were gone, swallowed up by the crushing weight of the moment. His chest twisted painfully. I loved him. We were supposed to have more time. I didn’t mean the last thing I said to him.
But they didn’t make it out. They never would.
No one knew. No one knew the truth. No one knew how James had loved Regulus — clumsy, bright, and hopeless. How they had shared secret promises in dark hallways, in the quiet places no one else would ever find. No one knew how little time they had, how everything had crumbled so quickly, so completely.
James shoved all of it down. He buried it deep, locking it away under the iron weight of loyalty- loyalty to Sirius, to Remus, to the part of himself that was still standing.
He crossed the kitchen in two quick strides, his hands reaching out to grab Sirius by the arm before he could bolt out the door, before he could run away from everything.
“Padfoot, breathe,” James said, his voice rough, hands still steady as he guided Sirius back into a chair, even though his own were shaking deep inside. “You’re not alone. You hear me? We’ll figure this out.”
Sirius let out a broken sob, half-swallowed, muffled by his hands as they covered his face. His shoulders trembled, and then, despite it all, despite the agony in his chest, he let out a bitter, broken laugh. It was sharp, hollow, a sound that made Remus flinch in the corner.
“And they still called him the Black heir,” Sirius said, his voice cracking with something darker than grief. “Even now. Not a word about who he really was.”
James stood over him, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. His body felt like it was made of stone, but inside, something was breaking, screaming to get out. He was suffocating in the silence, in the words that couldn’t leave his mouth.
I’m sorry, Regulus. I’m so fucking sorry.
Across the table, the newspaper lay open, cruel and unforgiving.
And James Potter, who had once promised Regulus Black the world, could do nothing but stand there and pretend he was whole.
Sirius let the paper fall from his hand, the sound of it hitting the table like the last nail in a coffin.
The flat was quiet now, a stillness that settled over everything like dust.
Sirius had finally succumbed to exhaustion, curled up on the couch with one arm thrown over his face. His breathing was slow, heavy, the shallow kind that only came after hours of grief. Remus, ever the steady one, had coaxed him into drinking something strong, murmuring soft, steady nonsense until Sirius’s trembling had subsided, until he could finally slip into unconsciousness.
James had helped, too. He’d kept his hands busy, his voice calm and even, his expression carefully controlled, but it was all an act, one he’d been playing since the news had hit. The moment it was over, the moment Sirius had fallen asleep, James had retreated.
He stood now in the doorway to his room, his back pressed hard against the frame. He could hear the faint sounds of Remus moving around the flat, but it all felt distant, muffled, like a world away.
It felt like he was holding himself together with spit and string, barely keeping it in.
With a deep breath, James pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it gently behind him. The quiet in the room was oppressive, thick with the weight of everything left unsaid, everything lost. The moment the door clicked shut, the facade he’d been clinging to cracked.
James didn’t even make it to the bed. He stumbled toward it, his legs shaky, as if his body had forgotten how to hold itself up. He dropped onto the mattress like a marionette whose strings had been cut, his chest heaving as he collapsed into the comfort of the sheets.
His hands immediately went to his hair, gripping it tightly as if the physical pain could stop the ache in his chest.
“Fuck-” he whispered, barely a breath. His voice cracked, raw and jagged. “Reg- Reg, no, no-”
The tears came then, faster and harder than he’d expected. Hot, desperate, they spilled over, no longer contained by the mask he’d worn. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to force the tears away, but it didn’t help. The shaking only grew worse.
He hadn’t had enough time. They’d only just started.
They’d barely had months together, stolen moments between classes, stolen glances when no one was looking, whispers in dark corners where the world couldn’t hear. They hadn’t been able to live it the way they wanted, the way they should have. They’d been forced to hide, to lie, to pretend they weren’t something they were. And now, it was over. Just like that.
Not with a fight. Not with a final, desperate goodbye. But with a headline.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, and his breath caught in his throat.
He twisted, his hands fumbling for the pillow beside him, and shoved his face into it, desperate to stifle the sound of the sob that tore from his throat. It was a raw, furious sound, one that seemed to come from the very depths of him, a mixture of helplessness, anger, and grief.
“I should’ve told you I loved you,” James choked out into the pillow, his voice muffled, broken. “I should’ve stopped you that night, I should’ve known something was wrong-”
The memory came flooding back, the last time he’d seen Regulus. The fight. The words that had torn through the air, cold and sharp, as they both tried to hold onto whatever was left between them.
“Maybe you never loved me at all,” Regulus had spat, eyes flashing with fury, hurt, and something else James couldn’t quite read.
And James, stubborn and hurt in return, had snapped back with words he’d never meant to say.
“Maybe I didn’t.”
The words had stung in the air between them, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. They hadn’t said goodbye. Not properly. Not like they should have.
James curled tighter into himself, burying his face in the pillow, trying to stifle the sobs that wracked his body. His breathing was ragged, his chest tight as if it couldn’t take the weight of all the things he wished he’d done differently. He clutched the empty space beside him, where Regulus should have been, the place he should have filled, the place he would never occupy again.
Outside, the faint light of the sunrise painted the room in pale, soft gold. It was a cruel contrast to the darkness James felt inside.
And James Potter, who had loved too late, loved too quietly, buried his face in the pillow and let himself fall apart, piece by piece. Pieces no one would ever see.
The memory rose unbidden, slow and golden, as James lay crumpled on his bed, eyes burning with the weight of what had been and what would never be again.
It had been a night not so different from this one, quiet, heavy with unspoken things, the kind of silence that settles in the air between people who have so much to say but don’t know how to say it.
They were by the lake, the dark water whispering softly against the shore, as if it, too, understood the weight of the moments passing between them. The moon hung full and low in the sky, casting its silver glow over the world, making everything feel like it was bathed in soft light, suspended in time.
Regulus sat cross-legged beside him, a battered sketchbook balanced on his knee. His brow furrowed in concentration as his pencil moved steadily across the page, capturing something only he could see. James watched him in silence, his gaze tracing the way the moonlight caught in Regulus’s hair, turning the dark strands into threads of spun silver. There was a grace to him, a quiet elegance that seemed almost too delicate for this world.
James didn’t dare to breathe too loudly, afraid that even the smallest sound would shatter the fragile peace between them, the calm that felt like it had taken forever to build.
He should have been looking at the lake, at the way the stars were scattered across the sky like diamonds, or the way the wind made ripples in the water. Anything else would have been easier.
But instead, all he could see, all he could feel, was Regulus.
The way his wrist moved with practiced ease, the gentle tilt of his head as he worked, the faint frown that pulled at the corners of his mouth when he focused. Every line of Regulus’s body seemed carved from something beautiful, something unattainable. For a moment, he looked like something half-real, half-dreamed, a star that had fallen just close enough for James to reach, but not close enough to hold.
“What?” Regulus’s voice broke the silence, dry but amused, pulling James out of his thoughts. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring until the words were already out.
James jerked, caught off guard. "What?"
"You’re staring," Regulus said, not even bothering to glance up from his sketchbook. But when he did finally look over, there was a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. His eyes, though, were soft, amused but with a hint of something else, something James couldn’t quite place. Curiosity, maybe.
James should have made a joke. Should have teased him back, deflecting the moment with a laugh. He should have said something that would make it feel lighter, easier.
But instead, the words slipped out, soft and unguarded, before he could stop them. "You’re beautiful."
The pencil in Regulus’s hand stilled, and for a beat, everything seemed to stop. The night, the lake, the world around them, it all seemed to hold its breath in the space between them. The silence hummed with something fragile, something that felt like it was teetering on the edge of possibility.
Regulus blinked, looking at him for a moment longer than James expected. Then, impossibly, a faint flush spread across his cheeks, high on his cheekbones. Regulus ducked his head, trying to hide the small, startled smile that tugged at his lips.
"You’re ridiculous," Regulus muttered, though it was soft, breathless, almost shy.
James grinned, a surge of warmth spreading through him. The tension that had been building in his chest, the ache that he hadn’t known how to name, seemed to lift for the first time in days. He felt lighter, as if the weight of everything else had momentarily vanished, leaving just the two of them, suspended in the quiet of the night.
They didn’t kiss, not then, not in that moment. It wasn’t needed. The moment itself, raw and real, was enough. It hung there between them, a fragile thing that could have shattered if they’d moved too quickly, too recklessly. But it didn’t. Instead, it stayed, held in place by the quiet understanding that neither of them had the words to capture it.
Later, when the night grew colder, Regulus would fall asleep against James’s shoulder, his sketchbook forgotten and abandoned in the grass. James would stay awake long after, his heart so full it felt like it might break. He’d sit there, wrapped in the cool night air, whispering promises he hadn’t yet learned how to keep, promises that felt as impossible as the stars above them.
"I’ll protect you," he’d think, but the words would catch in his throat.
"I’ll love you for as long as you’ll let me," he’d whisper to the night, to the silence, to the air between them.
And in that moment, before the world could come crashing back in, James would have believed it.
The war was over.
Or at least, as over as it could ever be.
Voldemort was dead. The Death Eaters had scattered like ash on the wind, and the shadow that had hung over the wizarding world had finally dissipated. James should have felt lighter triumphant, even.
But the weight in his chest hadn't shifted. Not in two years. Not since Regulus.
Not since the last words they’d thrown at each other, sharp and bitter, like knives into the silence that had once been filled with something far more fragile, more real.
The words Regulus had spat in anger, in hurt.
"Maybe you never loved me at all."
And James, stupid, furious, and scared, had lashed out, too. His response had been harsh, cruel words he'd never meant but that came spilling out all the same.
"Maybe I didn’t."
The echo of those words haunted him every single day. He lived with them and with the guilt of what he hadn’t said. The things he should have said. The things he had never been brave enough to say before it was too late.
So he buried himself in the world that remained. In rebuilding. Helping families torn apart by the war, mending the fractured pieces of their world, even when it felt like nothing could truly be made whole again. He threw himself into surviving, pretending. Smiling for Remus, laughing with Sirius, holding onto the tiny fragments of peace that existed.
But no matter how hard he tried, the weight didn’t lift. In the quiet hours of the night, when the house was still, when only the faint crackle of the dying fire filled the air, he could still hear it. Regulus’s voice, sharp and broken, ringing in his ears.
"Maybe you never loved me at all."
James would curl tighter into himself, staring at the shadows on the walls, and he would wonder what if that was true? What if the love they had shared, however brief, had been nothing more than a lie?
And his last words to Regulus, the words that had been meant to protect himself, to shield him from the reality of the situation, felt like a weight he could never cast off.
"Maybe I didn’t."
He would live with that guilt forever, wouldn't he?
But tonight was different.
It was late. Later than usual, even. The flat was quiet, too quiet. Sirius and Remus had both long since fell asleep in the other room, the house settling around them in the kind of silence that seemed to press down on everything, like it was holding its breath.
James sat alone in the sitting room, half-dozing in an armchair, the remains of his untouched tea cooling beside him. He wasn’t tired, not really. He just didn’t know what else to do with himself. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Maybe longer. The war might have ended, but the war inside him was far from over.
A soft pop broke the silence.
James shot upright, his wand already in his hand before he even fully registered the sound. His breath hitched in his chest, adrenaline spiking, every muscle tensed and ready to fight.
But it wasn’t an enemy standing before him.
It was a house-elf.
Tiny, hunched, its ancient form draped in what looked like an oversized knitted scarf that served as a tunic. The creature’s gnarled hands held something carefully, protectively wrapped in fine silk. It took a slow, deliberate step toward James, the soft swish of its ragged tunic brushing against the floor.
James didn’t move. He couldn’t. His breath had caught in his throat. He felt like the air had been knocked from his lungs.
The elf bowed low, its movements creaking with age, but its voice was firm, clear.
“Kreacher has been keeping it safe,” it rasped. “Kreacher was told to wait. To wait until it was safe. Until Master James was ready.”
James stared, wide-eyed, unable to speak. His throat felt tight, constricted, as if the very notion of what was happening had trapped him in a kind of paralysis.
Kreacher hobbled forward with slow, deliberate steps, placing the bundle gently onto the table. The silk wrapping gleamed in the dim light, and James couldn’t look away from it, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
The house-elf glanced up at him for a moment. In its eyes, just for a flicker, there was something soft, something almost sorrowful, like a reminder of all the things that had been lost. For a moment, it seemed like the elf understood, like it could feel the weight of what was happening, too.
“From Master Regulus,” Kreacher said, the words heavy and final.
Then, with another faint pop, the elf was gone, leaving the room feeling impossibly colder, the silence even deeper than before.
James didn’t move. His eyes were locked on the bundle on the table, and for a long moment, he just stared at it. The letter. From Regulus.
His hands were trembling when he finally reached out, as if the very act of touching it might shatter him. His fingers brushed against the fine silk, the fabric cool and smooth beneath his touch. The letter, wrapped with such care, felt heavier than any burden he’d carried before.
Slowly, reverently, he pulled the silk away.
And there it was.
His name. Written in Regulus’s neat, precise handwriting.
James.
Not “Potter.” Not anything formal or cold. Just… James.
His breath caught, and for a moment, the world around him seemed to blur. He pressed his forehead to the table, grounding himself, trying to steady his racing heart, trying to push down the tidal wave of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. It had been so long. Too long. And yet it felt like no time had passed at all.
With shaking hands, he broke the seal. The parchment inside felt like it might crumble beneath his touch.
The faintest scent of smoke and saltwater reached him, as if the letter had been carried through a storm to get to him.
James unfolded it carefully, his chest tight, his heart in his throat.
And he began to read.
James,
If you're reading this, then Kreacher kept his promise, and I am gone.
I won't waste your time with apologies, there aren't words large enough to make up for what I've done or left undone.
I’m writing because I couldn't leave you thinking the last things we said to each other were the truth.
They weren’t.
Not even close.
You loved me.
I knew it every time you looked at me like I was something worth keeping.
I knew it in the way you never asked me to be anything other than myself, even when I didn’t know who that was.
And I loved you, James.
More than I ever told you. More than I was brave enough to say when it mattered.
That night, our last fight, I wanted you to stop me.
I wanted you to fight for me, to drag me back, to say that whatever it was, we would find a way.
But you didn’t.
And I was too much a coward to stay anyway.
I made my choice. I thought it would save you.
I thought if I burned away the part of me that loved you, maybe you'd be safer. Maybe you’d forget me.
I was wrong about everything, in the end.
You were the only thing I was ever right about.
Every day, wherever I am, I will miss you.
Every lifetime. Every world.
If there’s something after this, some scrap of existence beyond the dark, I will find you again.
I don't expect forgiveness.
I don't deserve it.
But I need you to know: You were my salvation, even if I never reached it.
Yours,
always,
Regulus
James’s eyes blurred before he even made it to the first line of the letter. He tried to blink it away, to steady his hands, but it was no use. The words swam before him, too real, too raw. His heart pounded in his chest, and he felt a cold tremor crawling up his spine.
By the time he reached the end - "Yours, always, Regulus" - he was gasping for air, as though he’d been punched in the ribs. His breath hitched, shallow and ragged, the pain of it stabbing through him like a thousand tiny knives.
He dropped the letter onto his lap, his hands trembling uncontrollably. His chest heaved with sharp, broken breaths, and for one awful moment, he thought he might throw up. The weight of it all, the gravity of what he had just read, felt unbearable. His mind raced, spiraling, unable to fully comprehend what the words meant.
"He loved me," James choked out, his voice cracking on the words. His chest tightened as he fought to keep his composure. "He- he knew-"
The room seemed to close in around him, the air thick with the tension of everything left unsaid between them. His face flushed, his breath coming in uneven gasps, and before he knew it, his hands were pressing against his eyes, trying to smother the overwhelming tide of emotion.
He squeezed his eyes shut until the world went black, his vision spinning, the letter still warm against his lap. His hands shook with a tremor he couldn’t control, and his mind swirled with guilt, regret, and an unbearable ache.
Two years.
Twoyears thinking Regulus had died believing James hated him.
Two years carrying that burden like an anchor around his throat, never knowing the truth, never knowing that Regulus had, in the end, understood him far better than James had given him credit for.
And all along, Regulus had known.
The thought hit him like a tidal wave, crashing over him with the force of a storm. James folded forward in the chair, his body curling around the agony that tore through him, raw and relentless. Sobs ripped from his chest, ugly, jagged sounds he couldn’t contain. He didn’t even try to hold them back.
He cried for the nights he had stayed silent, too afraid or too proud to speak the words that would have meant everything. He cried for the fights he hadn’t mended, for the love he hadn’t been brave enough to give when it still mattered. He cried for the time he had wasted, for the moments that could never be reclaimed.
And he cried for Regulus, who had been so young, so full of fire and bravery, who had loved him in the quietest, most stubborn way. Regulus, who had given so much of himself in that love, even as he carried the weight of a world that had never fully understood him.
James pressed the letter to his chest, as though he could somehow fuse it into himself, as though holding it tight enough could stitch the hole Regulus had left behind. His hands shook with the effort, his fingers gripping the parchment with a desperation that made his knuckles white. He held it against him, as though doing so could bring Regulus back, or somehow undo the years of pain and lost time.
"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking as the weight of it all settled over him like a heavy fog. "I’m so sorry."
The house creaked softly around him, a quiet murmur in the stillness of the night. The world outside was silent, too, as though everything was holding its breath along with him.
James sat there, drowning in the ruins of it all, the only thing left between him and Regulus now a handful of words, written too late. The letter, fragile and worn, held all that remained of a love that had never truly been spoken.
But somehow, in that moment, it was enough.
A lifeline.
A proof.
He had been loved.
And, in some quiet, broken way, he had loved Regulus in return, enough to ache for it for the rest of his life.
James never let go of the letter.
He kept it folded neatly inside a small, battered notebook, the same one he used to scribble Quidditch plays, half-finished ideas, and letters he never sent. The pages were worn, the edges curled from years of use, but it was the only place where he could keep the words that had become a part of him. Regulus’s letter, fragile and precious, now lived between those pages, nestled alongside everything James dared not say aloud.
The world stumbled on, trying to find its balance in the wake of the devastation. People tried to rebuild, to heal, and James, too, tried to move forward.
Some days, it almost felt like things were normal again. He’d laugh with Sirius, their usual banter filling the air like it always had. He’d share long, quiet silences with Remus, the kind of companionship that didn’t need words to be understood. And on those days, he would pretend, for just a moment, that there wasn’t a Regulus-shaped hollow carved deep inside his chest.
But he knew better.
No matter how much he tried to push it away, he could feel Regulus in ways he couldn’t explain. Sometimes, it was the brush of cold fingers against his wrist when he reached for his wand, so light, so fleeting, that he thought he might be imagining it. Other times, it was the faint, comforting scent of cedar and parchment that lingered in the flat long after he’d come home too late at night, as though Regulus’s presence was still woven into the very fabric of the place they’d shared.
And then there were the moments when he’d sit by the lake alone, staring out at the still waters, and he would suddenly feel it, the fierce, undeniable sensation of being watched. It wasn’t just the stillness of the night; it was something more, something unmistakable. The feeling that, even now, Regulus was there in some quiet way, keeping his promise.
James never spoke of these moments.
Not to Remus. Not even to Sirius.
It was his alone, this quiet, stubborn belief that Regulus had kept his promise, that somehow, in some inexplicable way, he still existed in the spaces between the world.
Every day, as life moved on and time slipped past, James would catch himself smiling at nothing. It would happen when he least expected it, a sudden, unbidden smile tugging at his lips as memories of Regulus flitted through his mind. He would dream of black hair falling over sharp, knowing eyes, of the way moonlight had once kissed Regulus’s skin, soft and silver.
It was in those moments that James would reach into his pocket, touch the edges of the letter, and remember.
He had been loved.
And maybe, somewhere, in ways James could never fully understand, he still was.
It was a quiet comfort, but it was enough.
In the years that followed, the letter stayed with him, always tucked away like a secret, like a part of himself that he couldn’t let go. Even when the world moved on, and the wounds of the past began to heal, that thread of Regulus remained, woven through the fabric of James’s life. It was like starlight in dark cloth, faint, but unmistakably there.
James missed him. Fiercely. Hopelessly. Forever. And yet, in the midst of that longing, there was something else. A quiet, unspoken peace. Because he knew, deep down, that Regulus had never really left.