Chapter 4
4. The Time James Stole Regulus’s Breath
(Horrible Hiding Spots, Unnecessary Proximity, and the Deeply Inconvenient Reality of James Potter Being Tall)
The castle at night was different.
The torches flickered low, casting long, wavering shadows that stretched across the cold stone floors. The usual noise—the endless hum of students, the sharp chatter, the hurried footsteps—had faded into something softer, something distant.
Regulus walked the corridor alone, his footsteps quiet, precise.
He hadn’t planned to be awake this late.
But sleep had eluded him, slipping through his fingers the way it often did when his mind refused to settle. Too many thoughts, too many what-ifs, too much nothing at all, stretching endlessly into the dark. Lying in bed had felt pointless, a waste of time. And Regulus hated wasting time.
So, he had gone to the only place that ever made sense.
The library.
It was familiar, predictable—rows of books, their spines lined neatly in order, the scent of parchment and old ink lingering in the air. Here, things could be understood. There were answers, if you knew where to look. If you knew how to ask.
The corridors were mostly empty, save for the occasional flicker of movement from the castle itself—portraits shifting, armor settling, the walls breathing their ancient, quiet sighs. He moved through it like a shadow, navigating the turns with ease, steps measured, controlled.
His fingers twitched at his sides, the restlessness in his chest dulling slightly as he neared the heavy wooden doors of the library.
The moment he stepped inside, the world shifted.
The library at night was nothing like it was during the day.
Gone was the hushed murmur of students, the shuffling of pages, the quiet interruptions of Slughorn’s voice as he occasionally checked in on his more promising pupils. Now, it was silent. Still. The kind of silence that pressed against your skin, thick and undisturbed, as if the books themselves were holding their breath.
Regulus liked it this way.
He moved through the aisles with familiarity, his fingers trailing absently along the spines of books as he walked deeper into the rows. He wasn’t looking for anything specific—just something to read, something to fill the empty space in his mind.
Because that’s what he needed. Something to occupy him.
Distraction was useful. It kept the edges of his thoughts from growing too sharp, from pressing too deep, from cutting at things he had learned not to think about.
The silence of the castle was different from the silence of Grimmauld Place.
The quiet here was peaceful. Not empty.
At home, silence meant something else. It meant waiting. It meant careful steps and measured words, the sound of a clock ticking against the walls, the slow, creeping weight of a name that demanded to be carried.
It meant his mother’s sharp gaze, his father’s quiet expectation, the ever-present knowledge of what he was meant to be.
Sirius had never learned to live in that silence. He had always fought against it. Regulus had let it settle into his bones.
He inhaled slowly, shaking the thought off before it could take root.
It didn’t matter.
He reached for a book, fingers brushing against its spine, ready to lose himself in something academic, something methodical, something he could control—
Then—
A noise.
Soft. Barely there.
Regulus stilled immediately.
It hadn’t come from the main part of the library. No, this was different. This was tucked away, hidden.
The Restricted Section.
His lips pressed into a thin line. Who else would be here this late?
Most students wouldn’t dare. The Restricted Section was exactly that—restricted. Off-limits without permission, guarded by enchantments and an unspoken rule that only those with Slughorn’s favor, or a particularly daring disregard for authority, would risk breaking.
Regulus moved quietly, following the faint sound—something rustling, shifting, the soft thud of a book being placed on a table.
He turned the corner, eyes sharp.
And for a moment, he saw nothing.
Regulus frowned. His gaze flicked across the dimly lit aisle, scanning the rows of books, the old wooden tables, the empty chairs. He could have sworn—
A blur.
Something moved.
Not fully visible, not solid, but enough for his instincts to prickle in warning. It was subtle, a flicker of motion against the low candlelight, like the air had shifted unnaturally.
His fingers twitched toward his wand. Then—another movement. This time, something more tangible.
A hand.
Regulus’s eyes snapped toward it instantly.
Bare fingers appeared from seemingly nothing, brushing over the pages of an open book. Then, as if realizing the mistake, they tensed—hesitated—before pulling back into the invisible space.
But it was too late.
Regulus’s expression sharpened.
“If you’re planning to steal something, you could at least be subtle about it.”
There was a sharp gasp. Then—a loud, very undignified thud as James Potter jumped, his elbow knocking against the desk, his foot stumbling back.
And the cloak—a bloody Invisibility Cloak—slipped off his shoulders entirely, pooling onto the ground like liquid silver.
“Bloody hell,” he hissed, clutching his chest. “You absolute menace, are you trying to kill me?”
Regulus arched an eyebrow. James was staring at him, wide-eyed, like he had just witnessed a ghost.
Regulus crossed his arms. “If that’s all it takes to kill you, Potter, then I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.”
James let out a slow breath, visibly trying to recover. “Merlin, Regulus, you can’t just appear out of nowhere like some kind of—you know what? Never mind. Of course you can.”
Regulus rolled his eyes. “What are you even doing here?”
James hesitated for half a second too long.
Regulus narrowed his gaze.
“You are stealing something.”
James scoffed. “I borrowed it.”
Regulus looked down at the book still open on the table—Advanced Theories of Defensive Magic. He flicked his gaze back up at James, unimpressed.
James shrugged, entirely too unbothered. “What? It’s educational.”
Regulus exhaled sharply. “You do realize the Restricted Section is restricted for a reason, don’t you?”
James grinned. “Well, yeah, but rules are more like guidelines, really.”
Regulus clenched his jaw. “That is the single most Gryffindor thing I’ve ever heard.”
James bowed dramatically. “Thank you.”
Regulus reached for the book, snapped it shut, and shoved it into James’s chest.
James barely caught it. “Oi!”
“Take your borrowed book and get out, Potter.”
James blinked at him. “What, you’re not going to tattle?”
Regulus’s expression didn’t shift. “I am not a child.”
James smirked. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Regulus inhaled deeply through his nose, willing himself not to hex him on the spot.
James just grinned wider. “Why are you here, anyway?”
Regulus turned his attention back to the rows of books, dismissive. “Unlike you, I don’t need to sneak around for information. If I wanted something from the Restricted Section, I’d get permission.”
James wrinkled his nose. “That,” he said, “is the most boring thing I’ve ever heard.”
Regulus ignored him, stepping closer. His gaze flickered to the cloak, still crumpled on the ground, liquid-like in the candlelight. It was unlike anything he had ever seen.
“How did you get this?” he asked before he could stop himself.
James blinked, caught off guard. Then, to Regulus’s annoyance, his grin turned insufferably smug.
“Curious, are we?”
Regulus exhaled sharply through his nose. “Forget it.”
But James had already picked up the cloak, shaking it out with practiced ease. “Family heirloom,” he said, a touch too pleased with himself. He held up the cloak between them, letting the fabric ripple like water over his fingers. The candlelight barely caught on it, slipping over the material like it refused to be perceived. It was unnatural. Mesmerizing.
Regulus hated that it intrigued him. His fingers twitched at his sides, but he forced himself to remain still.
James must have noticed anyway, because his smirk deepened, insufferably pleased with himself. “I bet you’ve never seen one up close, have you?”
Regulus rolled his eyes. “It’s a cloak, Potter.”
James scoffed. “Oh, please. Even you know true Invisibility Cloaks are a rarity. Most of them wear out after a few years, lose their magic entirely. But this one?” He let the fabric slip through his fingers, the material shifting like liquid shadow. “This one’s centuries old. You’re looking at proper magic here.”
Regulus gave him a flat look. “And yet, despite all that history, you still managed to trip over yourself and lose it within ten seconds.”
James clicked his tongue, shifting his weight lazily against the table. Regulus ignored him. Instead, he reached for the book James had abandoned, flipping it open with careful, deliberate movements. Advanced Theories of Defensive Magic.
“You could have checked this out properly, you know,” he muttered, scanning the page James had been reading. “If you asked Slughorn, he’d probably let you borrow it.”
James groaned loudly “That’s boring, though. And if I must live up to expectations, I might as well do it dramatically.”
Regulus barely heard him. His eyes had caught something—a small passage in the text, just at the bottom of the page.
“There is an ongoing debate over the connection between physical intent and the potency of shield-based enchantments…”
His brow furrowed.
That… that was interesting. The book was talking about intent—true intent—being a factor in how strong a defensive spell could be. He had always considered defensive magic to be about precision, control. But this suggested that magic responded to emotion more than technique.
It shouldn’t have surprised him. But it did.
James, meanwhile, was still rambling. “Well, you caught me. What now? Going to report me to Filch? Technically, you’re not supposed to be here either. So if I get caught, you get caught.”
Regulus barely heard him.
James blinked, then frowned. “Are you even listening to me?”
Regulus turned another page. “No.”
James stared at him for a second, then let out a loud, dramatic sigh. “I get dragged from the comfort of my perfectly cozy cloak, nearly suffer a heart attack, and now I’ve lost your attention entirely? Bloody tragic.”
Regulus hummed absently, still scanning the text. “If you’re looking for sympathy, try Pettigrew.”
James placed a hand over his chest, looking wounded. “You wound me, Black.”
Regulus didn’t bother responding.
He flipped another page, fingers tracing the words, mind already turning over the implications. He could use this. If intent truly mattered, if emotions could be channeled—controlled—it meant—
James suddenly leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm, watching him with open amusement. “You really are a nerd.”
Regulus’s gaze snapped up.
James was close. Too close.
He had propped himself against the table, tilting slightly toward Regulus’s side, his messy hair falling across his forehead, his stupid, lazy grin still in place.
Regulus scowled. “Stop staring at me.”
James raised his eyebrows. “You’re staring at a book. In the Restricted Section. At one in the morning.”
Regulus huffed. “And you’re here doing the exact same thing.”
James grinned. “Yeah, but when I do it, it’s cool.”
Regulus gave him the flattest look he could muster.
James only grinned wider.
Regulus exhaled sharply and shoved the book back into his hands.
James tilted his head. “So, what’s got you all intrigued, then?”
Regulus closed the book. “Nothing that concerns you.”
James huffed, crossing his arms. “You’re terrible at conversation, you know that?”
Regulus smirked. “That would require me to want to converse with you in the first place.”
“Ouch.”
Regulus rolled his eyes, reaching for another book on the shelf. He had barely brushed his fingers over the spine when—
A noise.
A distant, unmistakable shuffle of footsteps.
Both of them froze.
Regulus’s breath stilled in his chest, his mind instantly calculating—distance, direction, escape routes.
Then—
A second sound.
A low, grumbling voice. Gravelly. Familiar.
Filch.
Regulus’s blood ran cold.
James swore under his breath. “Shit.”
Regulus whipped around. “You absolute idiot, you didn’t—”
James clamped a hand over his mouth.
Regulus jerked back instantly, eyes flashing with indignation, but James’s grip was firm. He shook his head sharply, his own expression unusually serious. Not the time.
Regulus narrowed his eyes but stilled.
James slowly pulled his hand away, shifting to peek past the bookcases. His expression darkened. “He’s coming this way.”
Regulus inhaled sharply. The Restricted Section wasn’t easy to sneak into—but getting caught in it? That was far worse. Even he wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of this.
James seemed to reach the same conclusion at the exact same moment.
His hand shot out, grabbing Regulus’s wrist.
Regulus barely had time to react before James yanked him backward, his back hitting the stone wall with a quiet thud.
Regulus’s breath left him in a sharp exhale. “What the hell—”
Then—warmth.
James was right there.
Closer than he should be. Closer than anyone should be.
Regulus’s back was pressed against the wall, and James—Merlin fucking help him—James had stepped right into his space, one arm braced beside his head, the other holding up the cloak.
And then—warmth.
The fabric slipped over them, swallowing them whole.
The Invisibility Cloak settled over their shoulders, sealing them inside the space—together, and the air between them shifted—thick, heavy.
Regulus could barely breathe.
James was right there.
Regulus could feel the heat radiating off of him, feel the brush of James’s robes against his own, feel the rise and fall of his chest. The space between them barely existed. His breath caught, and he didn’t know whether it was from the sound of Filch’s footsteps or the way James Potter was suddenly a breath away from him.
James was taller—Regulus had always known that, had seen it, but now he felt it. The inches between them disappeared in the way James had caged him in, one hand braced against the stone just above his shoulder, the other gripping the Cloak to keep them concealed. His posture wasn’t deliberate—it couldn’t have been—but it was overwhelming anyway.
Regulus inhaled sharply, the scent of something warm and infuriatingly familiar filling his lungs—like parchment and wind and something else he couldn’t name.
James wasn’t speaking.
Wasn’t smirking.
Wasn’t moving.
For once in his life, James Potter was still.
Regulus’s heart pounded against his ribs. Too close.
His throat tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides, pressing against the stone, as if grounding himself to something solid would keep him from—
His gaze flicked upward.
James was already looking at him.
Regulus’s breath stilled in his chest.
James’s eyes—hazel, warm, and entirely too focused—locked onto his with an intensity Regulus wasn’t prepared for.
There was something there. Something that shouldn’t have been.
His pupils were wide in the dim light, his lips slightly parted, his entire body too steady, as if he wasn’t affected by any of this—except Regulus knew better.
He could see it.
James’s hand flexed slightly against the stone wall. His jaw tensed, the muscle feathering as his gaze darted between Regulus’s eyes, searching, lingering, seeing too much.
Regulus hated that.
The footsteps stopped.
Just beyond the bookcase.
Regulus’s breath hitched. He swallowed it back, forcing himself to stay still, forcing himself to focus on anything but the fact that James was still right there, so close that if he moved—if either of them moved—
A shift.
A breath.
James’s thumb brushed against the fabric of Regulus’s clothes—barely—but the movement sent a sharp, electric thing through Regulus’s skin.
He stiffened.
James noticed.
Regulus saw it—the flicker of awareness in his expression, the slight part of his lips like he was going to say something.
Regulus’s pulse roared. The silence was unbearable. The moment stretched too long, their breaths uneven.
James’s eyes dropped—just slightly.
Regulus felt it like a shove.
Then—
Filch huffed, muttered something under his breath about bloody students, and turned on his heel.
They didn’t move.
Not for several long moments.
Not until Filch’s footsteps faded into nothing.
Not until the air between them felt too heavy, too thick, too charged.
Then—finally—James shifted.
The spell of stillness broke.
Regulus reacted instantly, shoving at James’s chest with more force than necessary, as if pushing him away would erase the last minutes, would banish the way his breath had hitched, the way he could still feel the warmth of James’s body so close to his own.
The Cloak slipped off their shoulders in a rush of fabric, pooling onto the floor in a cascade of silver. James stumbled back a step, blinking at him, surprise flickering across his face.
Regulus inhaled sharply, jaw tight, forcing air into his lungs like it was something he had forgotten how to do. His pulse still pounded, a steady, maddening reminder of the closeness, the heat, the tension that shouldn’t have existed at all.
James opened his mouth—likely to say something smug or insufferable—but Regulus cut him off before he could.
“If you ever do that again,” he said, voice cold, controlled, “I will hex you.”
James, to his credit, almost looked serious for half a second. Then—his lips twitched, and that infuriating smirk began to creep back, slow and deliberate.
Regulus clenched his fists, irritated beyond belief.
James tilted his head slightly, hazel eyes still bright with something unreadable. “I’ll be sure to make it more dramatic next time, then.”
Regulus exhaled sharply through his nose, sweeping past James without another word. He stepped over the Cloak with practiced ease, walking toward the exit with measured, purposeful strides. He didn’t expect James to follow.
But of course, James did.
Regulus didn’t acknowledge him. He kept his gaze ahead, his hands tucked behind his back in that careful, composed way he had mastered years ago.
James, on the other hand, walked with an easy, lazy rhythm beside him, like this was a casual evening stroll, like they hadn’t just nearly been caught, hadn’t just shared too much space, hadn’t just—
Regulus pushed the thought aside.
“You walk like you’re preparing to duel someone at any moment,” James mused, hands shoved into his pockets, voice light as if he weren’t saying something entirely too observant.
Regulus didn’t look at him. “Maybe I am.”
James let out a low chuckle. “Should I be worried?”
Regulus hummed noncommittally. “Depends on whether you say something that makes me want to hex you before we reach the main corridor.”
James grinned. “So, about ten more steps, then?”
Regulus sighed through his nose. “Five, if you keep talking.”
James laughed, the sound obnoxiously warm in the cold, quiet halls.
Silence settled between them after that, stretching over the length of the corridor, punctuated only by the steady rhythm of their footsteps against the stone floor.
Regulus should have told him to leave. Should have insisted they part ways the second they were clear of the Restricted Section.
And yet—he didn’t.
Neither of them spoke again until they reached the place where their paths would inevitably diverge—the point where one hallway sloped downward toward the dungeons, and the other curved up toward Gryffindor Tower.
They both stopped.
For a second, neither of them moved.
James rocked back slightly on his heels, watching Regulus with something that wasn’t quite amusement, wasn’t quite curiosity. His expression was unreadable, a contradiction of thoughts sitting just beneath the surface.
Regulus hated that he couldn’t place it.
“Well,” James said finally, casual, like they hadn’t just been pressed against each other in absolute silence moments ago. “It was a pleasure sneaking about with you, Regulus.”
Regulus scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. “It wasn’t.”
James grinned. “Liar.”
Regulus shot him a pointed look. “Go to bed, Potter.”
James tilted his head, watching him for a beat longer than necessary, like he was waiting for something, or considering saying something else.
Then—he smirked, turned, and started down his own corridor.
But just before he disappeared around the corner, he glanced over his shoulder, voice carrying through the empty hall.
“Sweet dreams, Reggie.”
Regulus stood there for a moment, watching as James rounded the corner, vanishing from sight.
He let out a slow breath.
Didn’t respond.
Didn’t let himself react.
Didn’t acknowledge the way something curled in his chest, something sharp, something unwanted.
He just turned, heading toward the dungeons.
And yet—
His pulse still hadn’t steadied.