James Potter Kind of Got His Redemption
Regulus Black, meanwhile, was not thinking about James Potter. He was not.
He wasn’t thinking about how he’d spent a full day annotating that terrible book with the passive-aggressive intensity of someone who knew they were right about everything. He wasn’t thinking about how some parts were almost good, if you squinted just right. And he definitely wasn’t thinking about how the protagonist actually had a bit of a tragic, misunderstood hero thing going on.
No. Regulus was thinking about Sirius's continued silence and the fact that, for once, the café was entirely quiet. Until the bell rang.
Of course, the last thing Regulus expected was for the smiling idiot from the other day to waltz in again, this time with his hands shoved deep into his pockets like he was trying to look casual and failing miserably. His hair was still untamed in that way that made Regulus want to grab it and—well, maybe that was just the annoyance talking.
Regulus stayed deliberately focused on his book, even as the stranger walked straight up to the counter, ordered his drink with the ease of someone who’d memorized the menu, and—oh no—was looking in his direction. Regulus’s heart did an ungraceful skip.
“Oi,” came the voice, cheery and too confident. “I know you. You’re the guy who thinks that book is boring.”
Regulus let out a small groan. “I don’t think it’s boring. I think it’s overwritten and predictable. There’s a difference.”
“Right,” the man said, moving to stand next to his table, his grin only widening. “You’re a critic, I see. Well, I—”
“I was a critic,” Regulus interrupted, his tone wry. “Now I’m just suffering through the last 50 pages so I can finish it for the full experience. You know, so I can properly say it’s a terrible book.”
“You’re a real ray of sunshine,” the man said dryly, but there was an odd gleam in his eyes. “I’m James, by the way. James Potter.”
Regulus felt his brow furrow. “Potter?”
“Yup,” James said, leaning slightly closer. “As in, I wrote the book you’re so enthusiastically tearing apart.”
Regulus’s entire body froze. He blinked a few times, as if this realization would somehow be less bizarre if he processed it in slow motion.
“You—you’re the author?” he finally managed to stutter. “The J.F. Potter guy?”
James gave an exaggerated shrug. “Guilty. You’re the first person who’s actually given me feedback that’s not a five-star review, so... well, here I am. I thought I’d... what’s the phrase... make it right.”
Regulus’s mind did a double flip, and then, because this was his life, he took a slow, careful breath, grabbed his coffee, and said, “You should’ve just written it better.”
James blinked.
And then, for the first time, Regulus realized that maybe—just maybe—he had just insulted the author of the book he had actually half enjoyed.