The library was quiet, save for the occasional scratch of quill. Remus had always liked studying at this hour—when the castle was calm, and he could almost pretend he belonged to himself rather than to the pull of his friends, his condition, or the expectations he tried so hard to meet.
He had barely noticed Regulus slipping into the chair at the other end of the table until the sound of parchment rustling broke the silence. Remus glanced up, expecting Regulus to sneer or say something cutting, but he didn’t. Instead, he just nodded, acknowledging his presence in a way that felt neither like a dismissal nor an invitation. It was… neutral. Almost hesitant.
They didn’t speak that night. Or the next, or the next.
Regulus was an unexpected addition to Remus’ late-night retreats. At first, Remus thought it was coincidence, but after a few weeks of finding him settled into the same shadowed corner, book in hand, he realized Regulus was choosing to be here. Choosing, of all people, to sit across from him in silence.
Over time, the silence between them started to shift—not empty, but not tense either.
Then, one evening, it was Regulus who spoke first.
"You keep rereading the same page," Regulus murmured without looking up from his own text. His voice was low, almost bored.
Remus blinked, startled, then glanced down, realizing Regulus was right—he had read the same passage three times and retained none of it. "Oh. Right."
Regulus turned a page in his own book, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Fascinating stuff, is it?"
Remus huffed a small laugh. "It’s less the content, more… everything else." He gestured vaguely at his head.
"Ah," Regulus said, and nodded slightly as if that answer made perfect sense.
-
A week later, they spoke again.
"Why do you stay so late in the library?" Remus asked.
"Why do you?" Regulus smirked slightly, but there was no real amusement in it.
Remus gave him a look. "It’s quiet here.”
Regulus sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I like reading. Books don’t expect anything from me.”
Remus, who spent most of his days trying to not only live up to expectations, but beat them, understood that all too well. It might have been more than he wanted to give away, but it felt like Remus caught a glimpse of the real Regulus. The one underneath the hardened exterior.
And maybe that was why Remus found himself drawn to him.
Because he understood.
Because there were things in both of them that didn’t fit into the neat lines the world had drawn.
"You’re a Slytherin," he said once, tone devoid of any malice.
"You’re a Gryffindor," Regulus replied just as evenly.
Remus hummed. "You don’t act like the rest of them."
Regulus raised a brow. "Neither do you."
Remus exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose.
That was how it had started—small remarks here and there, until conversation became habit. They spoke in hushed voices about books, about spells, about things that didn’t matter to the rest of the world but somehow mattered to them. The space between them had shrunk without either of them meaning to let it.
-
The Black heir ran a hand through his hair, looking down at the book in front of him without really seeing it.
"You all right?" Remus asked, keeping his voice low.
Regulus exhaled beside him, running his hand through his hair again before looking up. His expression was carefully neutral, but Remus could see the tension at the edges of it. "Do you ever feel like you're supposed to be someone, and no matter what you do, you can't quite fit that image?"
Remus hesitated. "All the time."
Regulus nodded as if that answer both reassured him and made things worse. He looked away, fingers tightening against the spine of his book.
He watched Regulus until he caught his gaze again and said, "You don’t have to decide who you are tonight."
Regulus stared at him for a long moment. Then, so softly it was almost lost in the flickering candlelight, he said, "I wish that were true."
Remus’s chest ached at that. He knew what it was like to feel caught between two impossible versions of yourself. Before he could think better of it, he reached out, brushing his fingers against Regulus’s hand where it rested against the table. Just a small touch. A reminder that he wasn’t alone.
Regulus flinched but didn’t pull away. Instead, he looked at Remus, truly looked at him, and something in his expression shifted. It was rare to see him without his careful mask, but now his face was open—uncertain, vulnerable. The dancing candle flames cast shadows across his features, making him look younger, softer.
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to just… disappear? Not in a morbid way. Just—to leave, be someone else, somewhere else.”
Remus swallowed. "Yeah. More than I'd like to admit."
-
Regulus, Remus had learned, was sharp but guarded. His words were precise, his presence composed, as if he had been taught from birth that control was the highest form of power. But every now and then, the cracks would show. His frustration with his family, his quiet resentment toward his own supposed fate—it all simmered just beneath the surface, visible only to those who paid close enough attention.
And Remus did pay attention.
He saw it in the way Regulus’s hands curled into fists when certain names were mentioned, in the way his shoulders tensed whenever someone brought up the Black family’s expectations. He noticed the way Regulus hesitated before speaking, as if weighing the cost of every word, measuring whether honesty was worth the risk. Regulus rarely said what he truly felt, but he didn’t have to.
At some point—Remus wasn’t sure when exactly—he had learned how to read between the lines.
Their friendship, if that’s what it could be called, hadn’t been an obvious thing. It had crept up on them quietly, in stolen conversations and unspoken understandings. It wasn’t like being friends with James, all easy laughter and effortless affection, or even like Sirius, who demanded loyalty with the sheer force of his presence.
Regulus was different. He didn’t ask for companionship; he certainly didn’t expect it. But Remus found himself offering it anyway, drawn in by something he couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the sharp mind hidden beneath the cold exterior, or the way Regulus’s rare moments of honesty felt like secrets given freely. Maybe it was simply that, in some strange way, they understood each other—two people shaped by circumstances they had never asked for.
So Remus started going to the library more often, at first out of convenience—he did have studying to do, after all—but eventually, it became something else.
Some nights, he found himself there for no real reason other than the quiet possibility of running into Regulus.
He told himself it was just habit. That it wasn’t strange to seek out someone who made silence feel like companionship rather than isolation. That it didn’t mean anything.
Regulus never questioned it. If he noticed that Remus sought him out more often, he didn't mention it. But sometimes, when Remus sat down at their usual table, he caught the flicker of recognition in Regulus’s eyes—something almost like satisfaction, quickly masked by indifference.
And sometimes, when the night stretched long and the candles burned low, when their conversations drifted into things neither of them admitted aloud to anyone else, Remus wondered if Regulus had started coming to the library for no reason other than the possibility of him, too.
It was one of those nights where Remus was only half-reading and half-doodling in the margins of his parchment, quill tapping absently against the page, when Regulus made a comment that sounded far too casual to be unintentional.
"Sirius talks about you a lot, you know."
Remus’s quill stilled against the parchment. He looked up, slightly caught off guard. "Does he?"
Regulus hummed, tracing his finger along the edge of his book. "He does. And everyone else talks about him talking about you."
Remus raised a brow. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
Regulus smirked faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Oh, you know. The way everyone seems to think there’s something more between you two. The way you look at each other, the way he always sits too close, the way you let him."
Remus blinked, his stomach twisting. He had heard the jokes before, of course. Lovebirds, practically married, when’s the wedding?—Sirius laughed them off, played into them, but Remus had never really known how to respond.
So he did what he always did when he didn’t have an answer—he deflected. "Sirius doesn’t know what personal space is. That’s hardly new information."
Regulus tilted his head slightly, considering him. "So, you don’t deny it?"
Remus hesitated, shifting in his chair. "There’s nothing to deny."
Regulus just watched him for a moment, sharp-eyed and suddenly unreadable, as if measuring the truth in his words. Then, with a slight shrug, he looked back down at his book. "If you say so."
Remus wasn’t sure why that unsettled him. He tried to go back to reading, but his eyes were drawn to the side, to Regulus’s profile, to the way his jaw was set a little too tightly, as if he wanted to say something else but had decided against it.
Eventually, Regulus shut his book with a quiet thud and stood. "I should go."
Remus nodded, though he felt like he had missed something—like there had been another conversation happening beneath the one they’d actually had.
-
The next time Regulus sat across from him instead of beside him, Remus noticed. Something he hadn’t done since those first few weeks. It shouldn’t have mattered. But the empty space beside him felt wrong, like an absence he wasn’t used to.
Regulus was reading, or at least pretending to. His posture was carefully indifferent, his focus fixed on the book in front of him, but Remus could see the shift—the subtle way he had put distance between them.
He didn’t ask why.
Instead, he let his mind circle back to their last conversation.
He started paying more attention.
When Sirius threw an arm around him in the hall, playfully invading his space, Remus didn’t shove him off like he normally would. Instead, he stepped away, not in an obvious way, but in a way that was intentional. In a way that he knew Regulus would see.
And Regulus did see.
Remus caught his gaze before he looked away, the faintest crease in his brow like he was trying to figure something out.
So Remus did it again.
When James made some offhand joke about him and Sirius being practically married, Remus didn’t laugh. He just gave a dry hum and turned the conversation elsewhere. When Sirius bumped his knee against his under the table at breakfast, Remus shifted—just enough to break the contact.
They were small things. Almost insignificant. But they were consistent.
And then, one day, he saw it—the moment it landed.
Regulus was watching, though he tried not to be obvious about it. They were in the library, but the time of day dictated that they were strangers. From a few tables down, at the table they referred to as their table, Regulus flicked his gaze toward Remus and his friends.
Sirius plopped himself down in the chair next to Remus, pressing their shoulders together. Without thinking, Remus pulled away.
It was instinctive, natural, as if he had just decided that no, this space is mine, and that was that.
Regulus gave the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. It wasn’t smug or triumphant. It was something softer. Something that made Remus’s stomach swoop.
The library had emptied slowly, chairs scraping softly against the stone floor, hushed voices fading into the corridors. Eventually, it was just them.
Remus wanted to sit beside Regulus again. And with no one left to watch, no reason to pretend otherwise, Remus stood, rounded the table and settled into the seat beside Regulus like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it was.
Regulus didn’t tense, didn’t shift away. He only went still for a moment, the faintest intake of breath giving him away. Then, when he finally turned his head slightly toward Remus, that small smile appeared again.Then, even softer than the smile, a blush. Just a hint of color at the tops of his cheekbones, barely noticeable in the dim light. But Remus noticed. And for some reason, he didn’t want to look away.
They didn’t talk about it. But after that, Regulus only ever sat beside him again.
Things went back to their version of normal—except now, normal meant something different.
-
The night was cold, the kind of cold that settled deep in the bones, quiet and persistent. It was late—too late to still be in the library, but neither of them had said anything about leaving. They sat close, their shoulders and knees brushing, the way they always did now.
Regulus’ fingers had gone still against the page, his eyes unmoving, distant.
“Something on your mind?” Remus murmured, his voice quiet in the stillness.
Regulus blinked, his focus snapping back. “No,” he said at first, then after a moment: “Yes.”
Remus tilted his head, waiting.
Regulus hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of his book. “I was just thinking…” he started, then trailed off, his lips pressing together like he was debating whether to continue.
“About?” Remus prompted.
Regulus exhaled, looking down at the table, then—almost too casually—he said, “Have you ever kissed anyone?”
The question hung between them, weighty in a way it shouldn’t have been.
Remus blinked. “No.”
Regulus nodded once, as if filing the answer away, but he didn’t say anything else.
Remus studied him. “Have you?”
Regulus’ lips twitched, something almost wry ghosting over his face before vanishing. “No,” he admitted. His voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “It seems… unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary?” Remus huffed a quiet laugh.
The younger boy shrugged, feigning indifference. “People put too much weight on it.”
Maybe he had a point. Kissing seemed like one of those things people made a thing of, romanticizing it into something grand, something defining. But maybe, really, it was just… a moment. Maybe it didn’t have to be complicated.
He wasn’t sure what made him say it—maybe the exhaustion of the late hour, maybe the fact that they were alone, really alone, in a way they never were—but before he could stop himself, the words were already leaving his mouth.
“We could.”
Regulus’ breath caught. “What?”
Remus swallowed, his heartbeat suddenly louder in his ears. He should backtrack, should shake it off, but instead, he forced himself to hold Regulus’s gaze. “We could just—do it.”
Regulus didn’t speak, but he also didn’t pull away. His face was unreadable, but his grip on the book in his lap tightened, his fingers pressing into the worn leather. “Why?” he asked after a long moment.
“Why not?”
Something shifted then.
Regulus set the book aside, deliberate in the way he did it. And then he turned, fully facing Remus, his expression carefully composed but his eyes giving him away—uncertain, but curious.
And then—slowly, carefully—Regulus leaned in first.
It was barely a breath of space between them before Remus closed the rest of the distance.
The kiss itself was tentative, unsure—just the press of lips, soft and almost too fleeting. There was no urgency, no dramatic rush of movement. Just the feeling of oh settling between them, something quiet and grounding.
Regulus was still, barely breathing, and Remus could feel the warmth of him, the way his fingers curled into fists against his robes like he didn’t know what to do with them.
They parted a fraction, but neither of them moved away entirely.
Regulus’ eyes shot downward, his voice barely audible. “That was…” He trailed off, like he wasn’t sure how to finish the thought.
Remus swallowed. “Yeah.”
Another pause.
And then, to his surprise, Regulus let out the softest huff of laughter, his lips quirking just slightly. Not quite a smile, but something close. “Not so unnecessary after all,” he murmured.
Remus smiled, small but genuine. “No. Not really.”
-
The changes that followed were small, subtle.
Remus noticed the way he caught himself constantly looking at Regulus or thinking about him when he wasn’t around. He noticed the way Regulus would casually grab Remus’ arm to emphasize a point. Or when Remus stood to leave, he hesitated to place an arm on Regulus’ shoulder. All of these small touches lingering longer than they should have.
Remus let his hand rest on the table, palm up, intentionally empty.
For a long time, Regulus didn’t do anything. He just looked at it, then at Remus.
Then, as if the decision had been made for him, Regulus’ hand—so slowly, so gently—moved to rest on top of Remus’s. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it felt monumental.
The feeling was too overwhelming, too new, and too exhilarating to hide.
For a little while, everything was good.
They kissed again. And again, and again. Each time more eager than the last. They would find themselves in the same dimly lit corner, away from prying eyes. Their books would sit between them, untouched more often than not, an afterthought to the real reason they kept meeting.
Their kisses were slow at first—soft, careful, like neither of them truly believed this was allowed. But it didn’t take long for the hesitation to fade, replaced by something deeper, something hungry.
Regulus kissed like he had something to prove, like he was trying to carve himself into Remus’ skin in a way that couldn’t be undone. And Remus—Remus kissed him back like he was memorizing him, like he knew this could all slip away too easily.
It was intoxicating, the way Regulus melted against him, usually so composed but unraveling at the edges when Remus’s fingers tangled in his hair. Or the way Regulus would let out a quiet, shaky breath when Remus kissed along his jaw, down the column of his throat.
They never talked about it afterward.
They never pulled away to ask, What are we doing?
They didn’t need to.
The library became their world, their stolen sanctuary. No one else mattered here. Not their families, not their friends, not the expectations waiting outside these walls.
Some nights, they stayed until the candles burned low, their bodies pressed close in the shadows between the bookshelves. They whispered to each other in hushed voices, not about serious things, not about the future, just—small things. What they had read that day, which professors were the most insufferable, which parts of the castle had the best hidden alcoves.
Remus liked the way Regulus relaxed when they were alone. How the sharpness of him softened, how he allowed himself to be touched without hesitation. He liked the quiet hum of satisfaction that sometimes slipped from Regulus’s lips when Remus kissed him just right. He liked all of it.
But they could only exist in the library for so long.
They could only stay hidden in the dark before the light found them.
And as much as Remus wanted to believe this was enough, that they could keep this secret between them forever—deep down, he knew.
-
“We don’t have to hide, you know.”
Regulus tensed slightly, “We’re not hiding.”
Remus huffed a quiet laugh. “No? Then what do you call this?”
The younger boy finally met his gaze, sharp but guarded. “I call it being careful.”
“You mean being afraid.”
Regulus’ jaw tightened. “If you knew what my family was like, you wouldn’t say that so lightly.”
Remus sighed, trying to be patient. He did know what the Black family was like. He’d heard from Sirius. He knew the weight that Regulus carried, the pressure the Black brothers lived under. But still… “I’m not asking you to make some grand declaration, Reggie. I just—” He hesitated, measuring his words. “I just don’t want to feel like I’m something to be ashamed of.”
Regulus’s eyes flashed. “I’m not ashamed of you.”
“Then what is it?”
He looked away. He wasn’t good at this—at voicing things, at laying his emotions out in the open. But Remus needed an answer, and the silence that was usually so comfortable was becoming unbearable.
“I just…” Regulus started, then exhaled sharply. “I can’t. Not yet.”
Remus sat back, nodding slowly, disappointment settling in his chest. He wasn’t angry, not really. But he was tired. He was patient. He was understanding. But the more time passed, the more suffocating it felt to keep this part of himself a secret. He wanted to tell his best friends who knew every other secret he had.
Still, he didn’t push. But Remus wanted more.
He wanted to meet Regulus by the lake without looking over his shoulder. He wanted to walk beside him in the hallways without worrying who might see. He wanted them to exist beyond these dim lit tables and whispered conversations between shelves.
Remus lay awake in his dorm, staring at the canopy above his bed, thoughts restless. There had to be a way.
He thought of the Marauders, of their adventures, of the secret passages they had found by chance or by sheer luck. Hogwarts was vast, full of hidden places, unnoticed corners. What if there was a way to see it all? To know where everyone was at any given time?
The idea struck him so suddenly that he sat up, heart pounding.
It was obvious.
A map.
A map that showed everything.
If he could make something like that, he and Regulus could meet anywhere, anytime, without the risk of being caught. They wouldn’t be confined to the library anymore. They could have freedom.
Excitement fluttered in his chest as he pulled out a spare bit of parchment and started sketching, writing out ideas and theories to test. The Marauders had already explored so much of the castle—he could piece it together, little by little–and he would share it with Regulus when it was finished.
-
By the time Regulus finally sat with Remus, he was stiff and cold, his usual careful composure just a little frayed.
“What’s wrong?”
“You tell me.”
Remus frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Regulus leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You and my brother seem to be getting along well.”
It took Remus a second to even recall what Regulus might be talking about. He and Sirius had been messing around between classes—Sirius had thrown an arm over his shoulders, ruffling his hair in that way he always did, loud and carefree, as if they didn’t have exams looming over them. It was nothing. It was always nothing.
Remus blinked, then exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re joking.”
“Am I?” he asked without question. “You were with him.”
“Yes. But not like that,” Remus exhaled.
“Not like what?”
Remus dragged a hand down his face, already exhausted by where this was going. “Not in the way you think.”
“And what way do I think?” Regulus leaned in slightly, voice dangerously quiet. “Tell me, Lupin, what exactly am I thinking?”
“That I want something with him. That there’s something I haven’t told you. That—that I’d rather be with him than with you.”
Looking at him now, Remus could see it in his eyes—the doubt, the insecurity, the way he was trying to act indifferent but failing spectacularly.
Oh.
“You’re jealous,” he realized, voice quiet with understanding.
Regulus’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on his arms tightened. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not,” Remus said gently. “But you are. Reggie, we’ve been through this. Sirius and I are friends. That’s it.”
“Tell me, then. What am I supposed to think when everyone—everyone—seems so sure that there’s something between you two?” He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Half the time I think even he believes it.”
Remus felt his stomach twist. Sirius had never outright said anything, but there were moments—moments that felt too warm, too close, where Remus had to remind himself that Sirius was like that with everyone. Wasn’t he?
But that wasn’t the point. Sirius wasn’t the point.
“And whose fault is that?” Remus shot back. “If people knew about us, there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings.”
Regulus stilled, his face carefully unreadable. “So it’s my fault then?”
-
Remus wasn’t sure when he started expecting it to end. Maybe when it felt like the silence was less from comfort and more because they didn’t have anything to say. Maybe it was when Regulus looked through him instead of at him when they passed in the corridor. Maybe it had been inevitable from the start.
Time passed, and things between Remus and Regulus became quieter, less frequent. They didn’t fight. They didn’t scream. But they did start pulling away in ways that were almost imperceptible. The moments of warmth they had shared—those lingering glances, those touches—started to disappear.
They had been unraveling for weeks, falling apart as slowly as they had come together.
There were no dramatic confrontations, no harsh words exchanged. Just as they never discussed the forming of their relationship, they didn’t discuss the ending of it.
For a while, Remus continued to spend time with Regulus in the library, but it was different now. The space between them had grown. Regulus began to spend more time with his own circle of friends, distancing himself from Remus in a way that didn’t feel bitter but resigned. And Remus, for his part, began spending more time with Sirius.
It was a quiet evening, and as Remus sat watching the fire, Sirius slipped onto the couch beside him, leaning in close, pressing their sides together. Remus didn’t pull away anymore. Instead, emboldened by his sadness, he wrapped an arm around Sirius and pulled him impossibly closer.
"You know, I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out," Sirius said, his voice low, playful, but with a certain edge to it. "You’ve been looking at me lately like I’m a puzzle you can’t figure out."
Remus gave him a small, hesitant smile. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, though they both knew it was a lie.
Sirius smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes, and before Remus could say anything more, he leaned in and kissed him—just a soft, brief thing. But it was enough. Enough to pull Remus into a new reality, where the weight of Regulus’ absence didn’t bother him.