Chapter 2
2. The Time James Stole Regulus’s Victory
(Quidditch, Split-Second Choices, and Regulus Making Himself Miserable)
James Potter had the annoying habit of stumbling headfirst into success.
It didn’t matter where he was or what he was doing—if there was a way for the universe to favor him, it absolutely would.
Some people trained. Some people strategized. Some people actually worked for their victories.
And then there was Potter. Who could, apparently, win at anything by simply existing.
Regulus had spent years perfecting control. James had spent his years at Hogwarts tripping over it and landing on his feet.
And now, he was about to ruin this match, too.
Regulus yanked his broom to the side as a Bludger came tearing past—entirely too close for comfort. Above him, Marlene McKinnon’s voice boomed across the pitch, dripping with amusement.
"AND THAT’S POTTER AGAIN, scoring with a completely unnecessary twirl—yes, I saw that, James—Gryffindor now trailing Slytherin by forty points, thanks to the showboating of their resident golden boy."
Regulus clenched his jaw.
Of course.
Because while he was out here actually playing Quidditch, Potter was making it look like some bloody performance.
And yet, somehow, he was still scoring.
It didn’t matter.
Because while James was busy grandstanding, making everything look effortless, Regulus was doing what he always did.
Focusing. Calculating. Winning.
And there—just past the Gryffindor goalposts—
The Snitch.
It flickered just beyond the chaos of the match, flitting in and out of sight like it was toying with him. A golden spark in the blur of red and green. Regulus inhaled sharply, his mind narrowing in on a single, unshakable thought:
This was it.
He had spent the entire game waiting for this moment, circling like a predator, biding his time. And now—finally—the Snitch was within reach.
His body moved before his brain even finished processing. A sharp tilt forward. A surge of speed. The wind whipped past his face, the noise of the crowd distorting as everything else fell away. Nothing existed except the chase. His fingers tightened around his broom. Faster. Closer. The Snitch flickered just ahead, teasing him.
McKinnon’s voice rang through the stadium, far too delighted.
“And Black’s spotted the Snitch! Merlin, look at that—focused, terrifyingly precise, probably plotting someone's untimely demise while he flies. Classic Slytherin efficiency."
Regulus barely heard her. He was locked in, his eyes locked on gold, every muscle in his body wired with purpose.
The Snitch veered suddenly left, but Regulus was ready for it.
He twisted into the turn with ease, keeping his movements sharp and controlled, feeling the familiar rush of certainty thrumming in his chest.
He had this.
And then—because James Potter existed solely to make his life more difficult—Regulus caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.
Potter was close, watching him like he was impressed.
Regulus gritted his teeth and pretended not to notice. He forced himself to focus, adjusting his position. But McKinnon, of course, wasted no time making things worse.
“Merlin’s beard, Potter, you’re in a match, not a romance novel—quit staring and do something useful!” A beat. Then, almost begrudgingly: "Though to be fair, I’d be staring too. That’s some ridiculous good flying."
Laughter rippled through the stands. Regulus refused to be affected by any of it.
The Snitch was right there.
Closer. Closer.
His hand twitched, already anticipating the moment he would wrap his fingers around it—a fraction of a second more—
And then—
He saw it.
Crouch Jr., twenty feet below, bat raised, eyes locked on a single target.
The Bludger.
Not just any Bludger—the one flying straight at James Potter.
Regulus barely had a second to process it.
James didn’t see.
Of course he didn’t.
He was still close to Regulus, but his attention was back on the game, too busy darting between Slytherin’s Chasers, passing the Quaffle like he had all the time in the world.
Still laughing. Still grinning. Still playing like nothing bad would ever happen to him.
Regulus should have ignored it.
Should have let it happen.
But—before he could think, before he could remind himself that Gryffindor winning was the enemy—
He moved and swerved—hard.
His shoulder collided into James’s side, sending them both wildly off course. James yelped, his broom lurching beneath him as he lost his grip on the Quaffle.
The Bludger missed him by inches, instead veering wildly past and slamming into the stands behind them with a deafening CRACK.
For a moment, chaos.
The crowd gasped. Gryffindor fans groaned—they’d lost the Quaffle. And Marlene McKinnon, clearly baffled, rang out through the stadium.
“Wait—what just happened? Looks like Black lost control for a second—was that a slip, or did Potter’s face just annoy him midair?”
Regulus barely heard her. His heart was still hammering against his ribs.
James, having finally steadied himself, turned on him, all heat and confusion.
"What the hell, Black?"
Regulus forced his expression into something sharp, something dismissive.
"Maybe if you paid attention, you wouldn’t be so easy to hit.”
James scowled, clearly ready to fire back—
But Regulus wasn’t listening. Because in those precious seconds he had lost track of the Snitch.
Not because of James. Not because of some unlucky gust of wind. Because he had let himself lose it. Because he had chosen to.
And by the time his eyes found it again—
It was too late.
Regulus ripped off his gloves the second he stepped inside the Slytherin locker room, his fingers stiff with frustration. The leather stuck slightly against his skin, damp with sweat, but he barely noticed. The world outside was still roaring—Gryffindor’s victory ringing through the stadium like a bell he couldn’t unhear.
He forced himself to focus. One movement at a time. Untying his cloak, tossing it onto the bench. Unstrapping his gear, setting it aside with precision. Everything controlled. Everything methodical. If he went through the motions, maybe the fury curling inside his chest wouldn’t consume him whole.
Most of Slytherin wasn’t paying him any attention—too caught up in their own frustration, shoving their gear into lockers with more force than necessary, complaining about biased referees and lucky breaks.
But Crouch was watching him.
Regulus could feel it, sharp and unwavering, like a blade pressed against the back of his neck.
He didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge him. He kept moving, methodical and controlled, stripping off his Quidditch robes, placing his broom in its case.
He was fine.
But then—
“Black.”
Regulus closed his eyes for half a second. Exhaled slowly.
And then he turned.
Crouch was standing by the benches, arms crossed, looking at him like he was something to be studied.
“What the hell was that?”
Regulus met his gaze evenly. “A game.”
Crouch’s jaw twitched.
“No,” he said. “That wasn’t a game. That was a fucking disaster.” His voice was low, sharp, just quiet enough that no one else could hear. “You lost track of the Snitch. That’s not like you.”
Regulus didn’t answer. Didn’t react. Didn’t let a single muscle betray the way his stomach twisted.
Because he was right.
It wasn’t like him.
It wasn’t like him to let anything slip, much less something as important as winning. But today—he had.
Because he had seen the Bludger. Because he had seen Potter—completely unaware, completely reckless, completely Potter—and had made a decision before he even knew he was making it.
Regulus lifted his chin, keeping his tone even. “It was a miscalculation.”
Crouch didn’t blink. “You don’t miscalculate.”
Regulus’s fingers twitched against his thigh, but he didn’t let himself react. Instead, he held Crouch’s gaze for a moment longer, before turning away without another word. He grabbed his bag, shoving his gear inside, shoulders set, posture dismissive.
“Watch your tone, Crouch.”
Crouch’s lips twitched, just barely. A smirk? A warning?
Regulus didn’t care.
He turned before the conversation could go any further. Didn’t stop walking until he was past the rows of lockers, past the noise, past everything.
And yet—
Even as he slammed the door behind him, even as the heavy stone walls muffled the world outside—
He couldn’t shut it out.
He braced his hands against the sink, staring at his reflection. His hair was a mess, windswept and tangled from the match. His cheeks were still flushed, adrenaline fading too slowly from his system.
And his eyes—his eyes looked furious.
At himself.
At Potter.
At the fact that he didn’t even know which one more.
He should be angry at Crouch, at least. Crouch was the one who almost ruined the match.
But no. Instead, he was standing here, seething at himself.
Because he hadn’t just lost.
He had let himself lose.
Regulus clenched his jaw. It didn’t matter.
James Potter wasn’t his problem.
James Potter had never been his problem.
He didn’t care.
Didn’t care that Gryffindor was probably celebrating without a second thought to the match. Didn’t care that James was probably smiling, probably laughing, probably not thinking about him at all.
Regulus exhaled sharply, gripping the sink tighter.
You don’t care.
And yet—
He couldn’t wash it off.
The effortless way he existed. The way everything always worked out for him.
The train to Hogwarts.Regulus hated that he remembered it.
Sirius had been running ahead, too excited to wait, already talking loudly with some boy with glasses—Potter, as Regulus would later learn.
Regulus had been alone.
He hadn’t minded.
Not really.
But then—
James had noticed him.
Had doubled back, grinning, like it was the easiest thing in the world to include someone.
“Oi! You’re Sirius’s brother, yeah? You coming?”
Regulus had hesitated.
For a second—a single, stupid second—he had thought about it.
But then—
Their mother’s words had echoed in his mind.
“You are not like him, Regulus. You will not make his mistakes.”
And so he had ignored James. Had lifted his chin, turned away, and found his own seat, alone. And that had been that.
Except—
James had always been there.
Always laughing too loudly in the Great Hall. Always soaking up Sirius’s attention like it had been meant for him. Always winning without trying. Always existing in a way Regulus could never allow himself to exist.
And maybe, for a fraction of a second, back then—
Regulus had wondered what it would have been like. To have someone look at him like that. Like he wasn’t a duty. Like he wasn’t something to shape and mold and fix.
Just—a person.
Regulus dug his fingers into the edge of the sink, willing the thought away.
It didn’t matter.
He didn’t care.
Whatever foolishness had made him knock James out of the way today—it was over.
He took one last breath, steadying himself.
Then he turned, leaving the room, leaving the thought behind.
As if walking away would stop him from thinking about it.
The locker rooms had emptied by the time Regulus stepped outside. Most of Slytherin had already stormed off—some to sulk in the common room, others to drown their frustrations in whatever distractions they could find. The stadium lights still burned overhead, casting long shadows across the pitch, the lingering echoes of Gryffindor’s celebrations spilling through the night air like an unwelcome reminder.
Regulus ignored it.
He walked with purpose, shoulders squared, jaw set. If he moved quickly enough, if he focused on the stretch of stone ahead of him, maybe he could push it down. Maybe he could pretend today had never happened.
Then—
“Oi, Black.”
Regulus recognized the voice before he even needed to turn.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t acknowledge it. Just kept walking.
He had no intention of entertaining this.
But Potter, of course, had no intention of letting him go.
A hand grabbed his arm, yanking him back. Regulus ripped his arm away immediately, spine snapping straight as he turned, eyes dark with warning.
"Don’t touch me."
James, utterly unbothered, crossed his arms and stared him down.
“What the hell was that?”
Regulus forced his expression into something cold, composed—unaffected.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
James scoffed. “Oh, come off it, Black.” He shoved a hand through his wind-mussed hair, shaking his head. “You knocked into me on purpose.”
Regulus arched a brow, unimpressed. “Obviously.”
James exhaled sharply, stepping closer, irritation rolling off him in waves. “Why?”
Regulus met his gaze evenly, his voice silk-smooth, clipped, detached.
“Maybe you were in my way.”
James let out a breath of laughter, but there was something else in it—something sharp, almost frustrated. “You know what?” he said, tilting his head. “You are so bloody irritating.”
Regulus lifted his chin. “And yet, you insist and keep this conversation”
“You didn’t want to lose today.”
Regulus’s fingers twitched at his sides. “That’s usually how Quidditch works, Potter.”
James’s lips pressed together. His eyes scanned Regulus’s face, searching for something. “You’re a sore loser, but you’re not reckless. That hit was calculated.” He tilted his head. “So why?”
Regulus had enough.
His patience was gone, worn raw by the match, by Crouch, by the unbearable weight of knowing exactly what he had done.
His voice was sharp, cutting, when he spoke.
“Maybe if you actually paid attention, Potter, you wouldn’t be so easy to hit.”
James stilled.
Regulus watched the flicker of something behind his eyes—something sharp, calculating, putting together pieces that Regulus hadn’t meant to lay out.
Shit.
But then James huffed out a breath, shaking his head like he was trying to push whatever thought had just clicked into place aside.
"Right," James said slowly, dragging out the word like he was testing the weight of it. "Because you’re just dying to take me out midair."
Regulus sneered, folding his arms across his chest. "I don’t need to ‘take you out,’ Potter. You do a fine enough job of being a walking hazard all on your own."
James let out an exasperated breath, raking his fingers through his hair. "You know, you keep saying my name like it’s a curse word, but you sure seem awfully involved in my well-being."
Regulus scoffed, his fingers twitching at his sides. "I don’t give a damn about your well-being."
James didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched him.
And that was worse.
Regulus needed this conversation to end. Needed to shake the feeling curling in his chest.
"You’re just lucky, Potter," Regulus said, voice smooth, deliberate, and edged with something razor-sharp. "Maybe next time, Crouch will aim better."
The words landed like a hammer between them.
James’s expression flickered—barely there, quick as a heartbeat, but Regulus saw it.
The realization. The understanding clicking into place.
James had almost been hit.
Regulus had seen it.
Regulus had moved.
For a long, unbearable moment, James just looked at him. No smirk, no cocky bravado—just quiet, sharp-eyed assessment, gaze sweeping over Regulus’s face, peeling him apart, searching for something, something Regulus refused to give him.
It made him itch.
Then—James exhaled. Stepped back.
No snark. No teasing. Just the smallest twitch of his lips—not quite a smirk, not quite anything at all.
"Try not to throw yourself in my way next time, yeah?" His voice was light, but there was something beneath it, something unreadable. "I’d hate to think you’re getting soft on me."
Regulus scoffed, a sharp, instinctive thing. "I didn’t—"
"Would you shut up and take a thank you for once?"
It wasn’t biting, wasn’t mocking. It was exasperated, like James couldn’t believe he was actually having to say it.
Regulus froze.
James shook his head, huffing out something like a laugh, something tired, something that shouldn’t have curled so tightly in Regulus’s chest.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, hands stuffed into his pockets, the stadium lights casting long shadows against the pitch.
Regulus stood there, rooted in place, the night air pressing heavily against his skin.
He didn’t know if he was more furious at James for saying it—
Or at himself for wanting to hear it.