When the Phone Rings Everything Changes
Regulus stands in the middle of their small kitchen, staring at the half-made grilled cheese sandwich on the counter. His stomach growls. Loudly. Almost mockingly, but he doesn’t have the energy to eat. His hands hover over the bread, the sizzling pan sitting just in front of him. He should flip it. He should finish making it, but he can’t. He’s too… tired. Too tense.
The silence of the apartment feels suffocating, the kind of silence that’s so heavy it presses down on your chest. The clock ticks loudly in the background, each second stretching into an eternity. It’s late, too late, and James isn’t home.
It’s hard to focus on anything. He tries to remember when the argument started, what they said to each other, but his mind is a blur. There had been yelling. Anger. Harsh words thrown, things that can’t be taken back. That’s it. That’s all he can think of now.
He flips the sandwich, the bread sizzling against the pan, but it burns slightly, and he quickly pulls it away, grimacing. He doesn’t care.
Regulus grabs his phone again, dialing. Another voicemail. It’s the fifth time he’s tried calling James, but once more, it goes straight to voicemail. His throat tightens. He knows what that means.
“James,” he says, his voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “Please, just call me back. We need to talk.”
But he knows, deep down, that the call will go unanswered.
Regulus pulls the sandwich out of the pan, the cheese slightly melted and the bread almost burnt. He turns off the stove, sighing as he debates with himself, his stomach growling in protest, but the thought of eating suddenly feels foreign. He holds the sandwich in his hand, weighing it, then sets it down on the counter. He can’t. Just as he exhales, his phone rings, shattering the silence.
Regulus snatches it off the counter, his stomach twisting when he sees 'Euphemia Potter' written on the screen. A flicker of unease crawls up his spine. He unlocks the phone, pressing it between his ear and shoulder as he moves the sandwich onto a plate.
“Hello?” His voice is clipped, still laced with irritation.
There’s a pause, just long enough to make his fingers tighten around the phone. Then, Euphemia speaks, and the tone of her voice nearly stops his heart.
“Regulus,” she says, voice tight and shaking. “It’s James.”
The plate slips from his hand, crashing to the floor.
Regulus doesn’t even flinch at the sound of ceramic shattering at his feet. His grip on the phone tightens, his breath caught in his throat.
James.
He swallows hard. “What about him?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, but there’s a tremor beneath it that he can’t control.
Euphemia exhales shakily on the other end. “There’s been an accident.”
The words punch the air from his lungs.
Regulus grips the edge of the counter, knuckles going white. His mind races, trying to put the pieces together, trying to convince himself she’s exaggerating, that James is fine, that this is all some horrible misunderstanding.
“What happened?” The question barely makes it past his lips.
“He was hit by a car,” Euphemia says, voice breaking on the last word. “He’s unconscious, Regulus. We’re at St. Mungo’s.”
Regulus doesn’t remember hanging up. One moment, he’s in his kitchen, surrounded by the smell of burnt bread and cheese. The next, he’s grabbing his keys with shaking hands, shoving his feet into shoes.
James. James, who had walked out after their fight. James, who should’ve been home.
He doesn’t even register the drive to the hospital. His heart hammers in his chest, his vision blurs at the edges, and the only thing in his mind, looping over and over, is please, please, please let him be okay.
Regulus stormed through St. Mungo’s, his footsteps echoing against the pristine floors. He knew this hospital better than most—not just because he had been born here, but because his father had worked within these very walls for years. St. Mungo’s was where he intended to do his residency, the best in all of England for neurology.
And they had to be the best.
Because James was here.
James was hurt.
He repeated it like a mantra, forcing himself to believe it. They were the best. They would know what to do. His James would be okay.
He moved like a hurricane past the reception desk, not bothering to acknowledge the startled staff as he made his way directly to the ICU. His heart pounded in his chest, a brutal rhythm that matched the fear clawing at his ribs.
At the front desk, he gripped the counter tightly. “James Fleamont Potter,” he said, voice strained. “Where is he?”
The nurse barely looked up. “Only family is allowed in the ICU.”
“I need to see him.” His hands curled into fists at his sides.
“I’m sorry, sir, but only immediate family—”
“I have to see him!” Regulus’s voice cracked, raw with desperation. The fear he had been choking down since Euphemia’s phone call finally burst out of him. “I want to see James right now!”
The nurse startled at his outburst, and for a moment, it seemed like she might call security. But before she could, a familiar voice cut through the tension.
“He’s family.”
Fleamont Potter.
Regulus barely had time to react before Fleamont pulled him into a hug. It was sudden, grounding—too much and not enough at the same time. Regulus didn’t realize he was shaking until Fleamont held him tighter.
His breath hitched. The room tilted slightly, the fluorescent lights blurring at the edges of his vision. His fingers curled into Fleamont’s coat as if holding on to him was the only thing keeping him upright.
He didn’t realize he was about to have a panic attack.
Fleamont kept a steady hand on Regulus’s back as he guided him through the ICU hallways, murmuring reassurances in a low, steady voice.
“Calm down, son,” he said, his grip firm but gentle. “Everything’s going to be alright.”
Regulus wanted to believe him. He really did. But the sheer terror clawing at his chest made it hard to breathe, let alone think rationally. Still, he forced himself to nod, inhaling deeply as they stopped in front of a small room.
Fleamont pushed the door open, and Regulus stepped inside.
His breath caught in his throat.
James lay unconscious in the hospital bed, his face pale against the stark white sheets. Bruises bloomed across his cheek and temple, dark and violent. His glasses were missing. Regulus’s gaze flickered over him, searching, chest rising and falling, the steady beeping of the heart monitor. He wasn’t hooked up to a ventilator. That eased something sharp and panicked inside of him.
He swallowed hard and took a step closer.
“Regulus,” Euphemia’s voice was gentle, as if she knew he was barely holding himself together. “He’s okay. He’s going to be okay.”
Regulus nodded, though he didn’t feel it. He turned to her, his voice hoarse. “Where’s the doctor?”
“They said they’d come talk to us shortly,” she answered, her expression tired but kind.
Regulus exhaled shakily. That would have to do.
Slowly, he reached for James’s hand. His fingers curled around it carefully, afraid to hurt him. That was when he noticed the bandages wrapped around his knuckles and palm.
His heart ached at the sight.
Regulus blinked rapidly, only now realizing there were tears in his eyes. He pressed his lips together, tightening his grip on James’s hand as if that alone could bring him back to him.
Tears slipped silently down Regulus’s face, dripping onto James’s sheets as he clutched his hand tighter. He barely noticed. The weight in his chest was suffocating, an unbearable pressure that made it hard to breathe. Guilt clawed at him, sharp and unrelenting.
This is my fault. He thought
Regulus brushed a few strands of hair off James’s forehead with trembling fingers, his touch barely more than a ghost of a caress. James looked so still, so unlike himself. He glanced at the heart monitor, watching the steady rhythm of James heartbeat. The sound should have reassured him, but it only made everything feel more real.
He wanted this to be a nightmare.
He wanted to wake up.
But he wouldn’t. Because this wasn’t a dream. This was reality.
The door opened, and a doctor stepped inside, clipboard in hand. Fleamont turned immediately, his voice tense.
“What happened to my son?”
The doctor exhaled. “James was admitted after a car crash. The other driver was intoxicated.” He glanced at his notes. “Right now, the other driver is receiving glucose while we monitor his condition. James was brought in unconscious. He sustained several lacerations on his hands, likely from trying to shield himself from the broken glass. Unfortunately, he hit his head in the crash—”
Regulus barely let the doctor finish before he launched into questions. “Did you do a CT scan? Is there any intracranial bleeding? What about his reflexes? Any signs of herniation?”
The doctor blinked, caught off guard by the onslaught. Then, with an approving nod, he answered, “Yes, we’ve already taken a CT scan. There is swelling, but no major bleeding. His Glasgow Coma Scale score classifies his injury as a moderate TBI.”
Euphemia frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means he’s unconscious, but not in a coma,” the doctor explained. “He could wake up at any moment, tomorrow, or weeks from now. Unfortunately, there’s no way to predict exactly when.”
Regulus’s stomach twisted. He hated that answer. He needed certainty.
The doctor hesitated before continuing. “That being said, we have observed minor reflexes, which is a reassuring sign.”
Fleamont exhaled. “And the brain swelling?”
“It’s expected, given the impact he suffered,” the doctor admitted. “We’ll monitor him closely, but right now, there’s nothing more we can do except wait.”
Fleamont’s jaw tightened. “And when he does wake up? What should we expect?”
The doctor sighed. “We won’t know until he’s awake and fully conscious. There’s a lot that could happen, but we won’t have any answers until we assess him.”
Regulus clenched his teeth, his nails digging into his palms. Wait and see.
That was the worst part. The helplessness. The fact that there was nothing he could do.
James was lying in that bed, unmoving, and all Regulus could do was sit there and wait.
The doctor excused himself, promising to check on James again in the morning. As soon as the door closed behind him, Regulus let out a shaky breath and dropped into the chair in the corner. His hands ran through his hair, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at James, unmoving in the hospital bed.
Euphemia’s soft voice broke the silence. “I’ll stay tonight.”
Regulus immediately shook his head. “There’s no need. I’ll take the first night.”
“Regulus,” she sighed, kneeling slightly to meet his eyes. “You need to rest. Go home, sleep—”
“No,” he interrupted, looking at her with quiet determination. “I don’t have school tomorrow. It’s Saturday. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than by his side.”
Euphemia studied him, her gaze full of understanding. He wasn’t going to leave. She reached out, squeezing his hand gently. “Alright,” she relented. “But we’re bringing you breakfast in the morning.”
Regulus gave a small, exhausted nod. “Thank you.”
Fleamont placed a hand on his shoulder, a silent gesture of gratitude and comfort. Then he turned to James, leaning down to press a kiss to his son’s forehead. “Sleep well, son,” he murmured.
Euphemia followed, brushing her fingers through James’s curls before kissing his temple. “We love you, sweetheart,” she whispered.
Regulus swallowed hard, watching them go, leaving him alone with James. The room felt too quiet, too cold, but he refused to move from his chair.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
As soon as the door shut behind the Potters, Regulus broke. A strangled sob tore from his throat as he buried his face in his hands, his whole body shaking with the force of it. The weight of everything crashed down on him all at once, James, unconscious, lying so still, the bruises on his face, the bandages on his hands, the swelling in his brain. The doctor’s words echoed in his head: We don’t know what will happen when he wakes up.
If he wakes up.
Regulus sucked in a breath, but it hitched violently in his chest. His stomach twisted with guilt so overwhelming it felt like he might choke on it. This was his fault. If he hadn’t picked that fight, if he hadn’t let his own insecurities and jealousy and exhaustion get the best of him, James wouldn’t have stormed out. He wouldn’t have been on that road, in that car, at the exact wrong moment.
James could have died.
Regulus let out a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp for air. His fingers dug into his knees as he rocked forward, eyes blurry with tears. He’d almost lost James forever, and for what? His own inability to control himself? His own selfish need to be right?
“God, I’m the worst,” he whispered, voice shaking.
His vision swam as he looked up at James. His beautiful, kind, infuriating James, now so pale and fragile in that hospital bed. He wasn’t supposed to look like this. He was supposed to be laughing, teasing, throwing an arm around Regulus’s shoulders and pressing kisses into his hair. He was supposed to be alive.
Regulus reached out with trembling fingers, brushing James’s forehead, just like Euphemia had done moments before. His hand lingered there, resting against James’s skin, warm but unmoving. Another tear slipped down his cheek.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “Please wake up. Please, please wake up.”
But James didn’t move. His chest rose and fell, steady but unconscious, and Regulus could do nothing but sit there, crying like a child, waiting for a miracle.
...
Regulus had dreamed of James waking up.
It had felt so real, James groaning as he blinked his eyes open, confusion giving way to recognition as he looked at Regulus. His voice had been hoarse, barely above a whisper, but still, he had spoken. "Hey, love." Just those two words, soft and warm, and Regulus had nearly collapsed with relief. He had grabbed James’s hand, pressing it to his lips, choking on laughter and tears as he told him over and over again how much he loved him, how sorry he was.
But when Regulus’s eyes cracked open, the world was cold. His back ached, his neck was stiff, and James? James was still lying unconscious in the hospital bed, the monitors beeping steadily beside him. His face was still bruised, his hands still wrapped in bandages. There had been no soft greeting, no whispered reassurances. Just the harsh reality that Regulus was still waiting.
He let out a shaky breath, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he shifted in the chair. His whole body felt sore, curled awkwardly as he had been for God knows how many hours. He barely had time to sit up properly before the door opened, and a nurse walked in.
She glanced at the monitors first, making her way over to James’s bedside, checking his vitals with practiced ease. Then her gaze flickered to Regulus, eyebrows raising slightly.
“Did you sleep here the whole night?” she asked.
Regulus ran a hand through his tangled hair and nodded. “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse.
She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “Poor thing. You should’ve told us. We’d have given you a blanket, it’s always freezing in here.”
Only then did Regulus take stock of himself. He was wearing thin pajama pants, a thin white shirt, and, he glanced down, mismatched sneakers. He looked a mess. He was a mess. Last night had been chaos, and he hadn’t even thought before throwing on whatever was closest and rushing out the door.
“It’s fine,” he mumbled, voice rough with exhaustion. “I didn’t mind.”
The nurse gave him a knowing look but didn’t press. Instead, she finished noting down James’s vitals and tucked the blanket more securely around him before turning back to Regulus.
“If you need anything, let me know,” she said gently.
Regulus nodded again, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Thanks.”
The nurse gave him one last reassuring smile before leaving the room, and Regulus sagged back into his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. His stomach twisted as he looked at James again, at the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Another day of waiting.
Regulus sat back in his chair, shifting uncomfortably as the soreness in his back and neck settled in. He had barely gathered his thoughts when the door creaked open again, and Euphemia and Fleamont stepped inside, carrying a bag with breakfast takeout.
“Good morning, dear,” Euphemia said softly, setting the bag on the small table by the window. The smell of eggs and toast filled the room, but instead of making him hungry, Regulus’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. He wasn’t ready for breakfast. He wasn’t ready for anything except for James to wake up.
Euphemia must have noticed his hesitation because she sighed, crossing her arms. “You should eat something.”
“I’m fine,” Regulus said quickly, his voice tight.
She gave him a look that told him she didn’t believe him for a second. “You were up all night, and you look exhausted. At least have some tea.”
Regulus hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
Euphemia glanced at Fleamont, who simply stepped forward and placed a reassuring hand on Regulus’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go home for a bit?” he suggested gently. “Get some rest, change your clothes. We’ll be here with James.”
Regulus stiffened. The idea of leaving made him feel like he was abandoning James, even for just a few hours. “I—”
“Regulus,” Euphemia said, her voice firmer now. “Go home. Get some sleep. You won’t do James any good if you wear yourself down.”
He clenched his jaw, still reluctant. “If the doctor comes please text me and I want to know immediately if anything changes.”
“Of course,” Fleamont assured him. “We’ll call you the moment we hear anything.”
Regulus exhaled slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He didn’t want to leave. But he also knew they were right. So, with great reluctance, he stood up, stretching out his sore limbs.
“I’ll be back soon,” he murmured, looking at James one last time before turning toward the door.
“We’ll take care of him,” Euphemia promised.
Regulus nodded, swallowing thickly before stepping out of the room.